


Better Love

by melancholymango



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bed Sharing Shenanigans, Coming In Pants Hijinks, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Established Yen/Geralt, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Geralt in specific but they're all terrible at feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Getting Together, I call this Horny Angst with a side of Fluff, Jaskier helps them with their issues, Love Rivals Gone Wrong!!, M/M, Miscommunication, Multi, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Polyamory, Relationship Advice, Sex Potion Antics, Threesome - F/M/M, Unhealthy Relationships, they get there in the end though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:29:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 89,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22891039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melancholymango/pseuds/melancholymango
Summary: “Seriously, Jaskier, do you really think that Geralt would let just anyone follow him around for years? That man is an impenetrable fortress, he has walls built up around his heart that no one has scaled in the near-century he’s been alive. No one but you. The bard, plain and human, nothing particularly interesting about him-”“Hey!”“And yet, here you are. One of the two people in this entire universe that has caught and held Geralt of Rivia’s attention for longer than a fortnight.” Yennefer finishes firmly, ignoring his interjection. Jaskier slowly closes his mouth, tries to swallow around his weighty tongue. “He loves you, Jaskier. Maybe he doesn’t even realize it, maybe it’s a different kind of love entirely, but make no mistake, what Geralt feels for you is just as strong and all-encompassing as what he feels for me.”--aka the fic where Yennefer and Jaskier bond over their shared love for Geralt and their utter inability to confess it. And somewhere along the way, they end up falling in love with each other.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 320
Kudos: 1372
Collections: Fave Stories of Queixo, Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother), break the awkward come undone





	1. Blind to the purpose of the brute divine, but you were mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all and welcome to my accidental fic!! Originally, this was meant to be a 10k oneshot, one of those fun "5 times, 1 time" tropey things that are short and lovely and easy to read. I started writing it in the CAR, I literally didn't expect much from the finished product. Erhmm... the final wordcount of this fic, including all 8 chapters, is 83k. Yeah, I don't know what happened there, but more content for y'all so!!!!
> 
> I just wanna do a quick disclaimer here: I love Yennefer. If she comes across as an asshole in the beginning, it's not because I'm trying to write her as a toxic character. It's just that the story is from Jaskier's pov and he's sort-of an unreliable narrator in the sense that he paints Yen in a bad light bc he's jealous. And on top of that, she has her own reservations about relationships and sometimes despite her best intentions... she fucking sucks at them. I love Yen, trust me, and she does progress as a character through the story. 
> 
> By the end of this fic all three of the mains are in a loving, healthy, communicative poly relationship together!! Promise!!!

It’s not unusual to spend entire days on your feet when traveling with Geralt. Eventually, one gets used to it, to the constant blisters and the constant creak of their joints in protest. 

There was a time, years ago, when Jaskier had begged for breaks every few hours and spent the hours between complaining after inevitably being denied them. Back then Geralt had viewed him as little more than a nuisance and inconvenience, and his comfort was hardly a priority. Jaskier likes to think they’ve made a lot of progress since then.

Admittedly, Geralt still doesn’t stop for breaks often as he should, but Jaskier has come to terms with that and stopped asking for them. He’s taken a page out of Geralt’s book, learned how to bite his tongue through the discomfort, and trudge dutifully alongside his friend in that same determined silence. 

And in not asking for them, Geralt started to give them. Not often, not long breaks, but breaks in the constant monotonous walking all the same where they’d pull off the path and spend some time admiring their surroundings. And when they needed to make good time for whatever reason and breaks weren’t an option, Geralt would simply hold a hand out to him and pull him up onto Roach’s back alongside him.

The first time Geralt had let him ride that horse was the moment Jaskier knew they were really, truly, genuine friends… no matter how Geralt had rejected the entire idea when he’d gone all teary-eyed and blabbered about it that very moment.

The days of riding on Roach’s back were long gone now though, distant fond memories, and so he continued on stomping through the muck as heavy rain pelted his back and soaked through his cloak.

Try as he may, he couldn’t stop himself from casting the occasional glare to the side, where Yennefer was settled comfortably behind Geralt atop Roach. Her hands were clutched at his chest, her face tucked into the nape of his neck, her eyes closed and her breathing so even it was hard to tell if she was even awake.

She wore half of Geralt’s wardrobe around her shoulders, piled high around her like blankets to shield her from the rain. Nevermind that Geralt himself had to be feeling the cold at least a little bit, or that Jaskier had been shivering for hours now, his teeth chattering on their own accord. Geralt had offered him a coat, just one, but it was only after he’d piled them all onto Yennefer and Jaskier would have to be a fool to try and take one back from her. Besides, it wasn’t the same. Geralt was offering it to him out of necessity, not because he cared. 

Not like he cared for her.

_Never_ like he cared for her.

\--

When the distant flicker of light filters through the branches of the trees, Jaskier feels a swoop of relief in his chest so succinct that it nearly knocks him off his weary feet. It’s staggering, has his breath catching in his throat, his steps growing more eager than they’ve been in hours as he stumbles blindly ahead. 

Soon, the path weaves out of the trees and through the village, and despite the aches and pains Jaskier feels like skipping down the main street. It’s nearly dark outside and it’s been raining buckets since morning, the idea of a roof over his head and a warm bath is positively orgasmic.

But when they reach the inn, Geralt doesn’t stir Yennefer from sleep, or even slow Roach’s gait.

Jaskier looks to him with wide eyes, confusion plainly apparent in his features. Geralt offers him a small smile, a bittersweet sort-of expression. He doesn’t even have to say a word, Jaskier’s shoulders sink accordingly before his lips even part, resigned acceptance washing over him.

“Their noticeboard was empty. The next town is only an hour’s walk from here, there’s no use stopping before sunset if there’s no work for us here.”

“Right.” Jaskier agrees blindly, steeling his nerves and gritting his teeth, fighting the urge to look longingly back over his shoulder and admire the inn one last time before they pass it by forever. As much as he’d love to stop, he trusts Geralt, knows he has their best interest at heart.

“There _is_ use, it’s called not catching pneumonia from the cold and dying.” Yennefer speaks up suddenly, her voice as scratchy as it always is after sleep. It startles Jaskier, but Geralt doesn’t seem surprised at all that she’s rejoined the world of the living, likely picking up on the shift in her breathing long before she spoke. Jaskier tears his gaze away from Geralt like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t, simply by looking.

“The next town is much larger, the inn will be nicer.” Geralt’s voice has taken on that tone, that subtly pleading one that Jaskier never once heard until he met Yennefer. Geralt of Rivia doesn’t need to convince people, he gives orders and they follow. Geralt shouldn’t feel the need to explain himself, to accommodate for anyone’s wishes but his own. This is _his_ journey after all.

“I think we should continue on, an hour’s journey isn’t far at all compared to what we’ve traveled alre-”

“Geralt.” Yennefer says his name like one would a misbehaving dog, while speaking over Jaskier without so much as a glance in his direction. It’s how she always is. She treats people like pawns, like things she can bend to her will, meant only to fulfill her whims. 

Jaskier _hates_ her. 

“Yes?”

“If you want to fuck me tonight, we’re stopping here. If you don’t, then you can continue on your way with your bard and I’ll pay for a room myself by sleeping with the bartend instead. But either way, I’m not spending another minute in this storm. Do I make myself clear?”

A long bout of silence follows, Geralt’s hands tight on the reigns. 

Jaskier holds his breath the entire time, pleading to gods he doesn’t believe in that this will be the moment Geralt _finally_ snaps, recovers his pride and breaks himself out of the spell he’s under.

But then Yennefer starts to smile like she’s already gotten her way, her hands dropping from Geralt’s chest to down between his legs, groping him through his leather breeches. Jaskier pries his eyes away, feels lightheaded in a way that doesn’t come from the physical exhaustion. 

“I’ll take Roach to the stables, you two get us a room.” Geralt’s voice is weak, so weak, like a man starved and beaten into compliancy. That’s _not_ how love should sound. Jaskier may not be the wisest of the trio, but he’s loved many and he’s loved deeply, and he _knows_ what love looks like.

“A room?”

“Yes.”

“One room? For the three of us?” Yennefer presses again, begging Geralt to rethink his answer.

Finally, Jaskier can take it no more, his teeth threatening to bite clean through his tongue with how he’s been holding onto it. He whips his head around to glare up at her, nostrils flaring in anger.

“And you say I’m the whiny one, she never fucking shuts her trap.” Jaskier comments coldly, ignoring the shocked glance Yennefer finally casts his way, properly looking at him for the first time since she joined them on their journey once again a week ago. “Yes, _one_ room. That’s all we’ve ever gotten and it’s all we’ve ever needed. We’re not wasting extra coin on a second room when we’re short as it is. Suck it up, buttercup, because at least he’s gonna let you sleep in the bed with him while _some of us_ have to spread their bedroll out on the floor.”

Jaskier knew what he was doing, knew the risk he was taking for standing up to her, but it didn’t stop him and he doesn’t regret it now… even as he feels the air around his throat tighten, constricting tighter until he can hardly draw a breath. The witch is glaring at him intently as she performs the magic.

“I could kill you with a flick of my wrist, bard, snap your neck like a twig. It would be in your best interest to keep your massive gob shut before you test my patience. I’m tired, hungry, and horny, and I’m not above murder if it means satisfying my needs sooner.”

“Yennefer. Leave him alone.” Geralt’s voice is firm, the firmest he ever allows it to be when speaking to her. He turns in the saddle, suiting her with a steely look. She simply smiles back at him, smug and cruel, toothy like a wolf to a lamb. Geralt caves pathetically fast. “We’ll get a second room.”

The pressure around Jaskier’s throat slackens and he gasps for air the moment he’s able, doubling over to support himself against his knees.

“I thought you’d say that.” Yennefer grins, swinging her leg over Roach’s broad back and gently sliding down to the ground. Jaskier stumbles away when she falls too close to him, disgust showing plain across his features. She doesn’t notice anyway, lingering by Roach’s side and reaching up to caress Geralt’s face, slender fingers cupping his strong jawline. 

Geralt moves to touch her back, but she snatches his wrist at the last second and shakes her head. “I’ll have them draw a bath for you, those hands aren’t coming anywhere near me until they’ve soaked for an hour at least. You reek of horse and sweat. Disgusting.”

And with that, she’s off, turning on her heel and striding confidently back toward the inn. 

Jaskier waits until she’s well out of earshot, ever the considerate one, but then looks to Geralt and lets all of his disappointment out at once in one wicked sigh. He throws his hands up in the air, looks at Geralt in complete and utter exasperation, doesn’t try to be kind about it.

“ _Seriously_?!”

“Go, Jaskier. Get out of the rain.” Geralt responds in a grunt, maneuvering Roach to head back toward the stables. Ignoring the chill down to his bones and the way his body protests every step, Jaskier follows alongside him instead of heading for the warmth of the inn. They don’t often get time alone anymore, so it’s up to him to find these moments on his own and cherish them appropriately.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t get it.” Jaskier says, unbidden, while Geralt dismounts and his feet hit the ground with an audible thud. Jaskier doesn’t flinch away from his looming presence, instead stepping even closer and invading Geralt’s personal space in a way that would have gotten him punched just a few short years ago. “What is it about her? She’s the most abhorrent woman I’ve ever met. I’d rather have a roll in the hay with one of the monsters you slay than let her anywhere near my cock.”

“I suppose you’re lucky then, that she’s not after your cock.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll mind my business. Let you make your own terrible decisions for yourself.” Jaskier backtracks quickly, hearing the exhaustion in Geralt’s tone. This isn’t a night for introspection of any type, then. They’ve all had a long day and Jaskier should really let it be, should trust Geralt knows what Geralt needs and turn the other cheek to the entire situation.

But… there’s a traitorous pull at Jaskier’s heart every time he watches Geralt crumble like sand in the palm of her hand. He can’t stand by and let it happen. “But you and I both know how this is going to end, how it _always_ ends when our paths meet with the lovely Yennefer of Vengerberg. She’s going to rip your heart out and chew it up like cattle to cud, you’re going to mope for weeks while insisting that you’re not moping at all, and I’m the one that’s going to be around for damage control long after she’s left and destroyed everything in her path.”

“Jaskier!” Geralt hisses, low and displeased, slamming the door to the stall shut hard enough to have Roach whinnying in protest. He reaches over the gate, presses a hand between her eyes and shushes her quietly. When he looks back to Jaskier, the anger has dissipated, replaced again with a sense of tiredness that could rival the dead. “Please. Spare me the details. I’m no idiot.”

“I know you’re not. It’s not me you need to convince of that fact.” Jaskier mutters under his breath, but the humor of it is lost on his friend. Geralt grabs their bags and starts toward the door, doesn’t even slow down when Jaskier pries his own bag out of his hands. He digs around inside, eventually returning with a small glass bottle that he presents to Geralt just before they step outside. 

Geralt pauses in his tracks, stares for a long moment, and eventually gives a grunt of acknowledgement. 

“For your bath. I know how you love it.” Jaskier clarifies needlessly, nodding his head toward the bottle of chamomile oil. He figures they won’t get a chance to speak or see each other again tonight once they retire to their rooms, so now is his only chance to have this exchange.

“Thank-you.” Geralt manages eventually, stilted and tense as always when it comes to matters of affection. Jaskier just shrugs his shoulders, taking pity on him and changing the topic.

“No, thank- _you_.” Jaskier corrects lightly, nudging him. “For splurging on a second room. I know it was more for privacy’s sake than mine, but my back will surely appreciate it. My aging bones are starting to protest all of the nights on the hard floor.”

Geralt’s eyebrows draw together, a scowl enveloping his face.

“Jaskier, the coin is as much yours as it is mine, your singing brings in more than my line of work does. I only keep it on me to ration it, not lord the money over your head. If you wanted a second room, you could have asked.” 

“I know.” Jaskier admits hurriedly, realizing he’s backed himself into a corner here. He doesn’t want Geralt to think he wants a second room every time now, because although it would benefit him greatly physically, it’s the furthest thing from what he _wants_. But it’s not like he can explain why, why the appeals of sleeping on the floor beside Geralt’s bed are so strong they cancel out all of the bad that accompanies them. “I guess I’m just used to falling asleep to the sound of your ungodly snores, not sure I could without it at this point.”

“Hm.” Geralt huffs, apparently considering the conversation concluded as he steps out into the rain and heads back toward the inn. 

But Jaskier knows him well enough to read every miniscule shift in mood, and he recognizes it as a sound of approval, of acceptance. It swamps Jaskier with relief, knowing he doesn’t have to explain any more than he has, that perhaps things will go back to normal soon and they’ll share a room again. Nights spent sharing warm meals at an inn, massaging oil into tired muscles, listening to Geralt’s breathing even and slow further as sleep finds him… those are Jaskier’s _favorite_ nights.

The inn is a bustling little place for such a small village. A few locals light up upon seeing Jaskier carry his lute inside and he brightens in turn, already plotting what songs to perform later in the evening after he’s bathed and eaten. Yennefer is already settled at the bar, downing ale and eating her way through a meal she surely expects Geralt to pay for. 

Geralt heads straight toward her and Jaskier reluctantly follows at his side, hanging his head low.

Their exchange is brief. Yennefer shares the numbers of their rooms and informs Geralt that the bath should be ready when he gets there, that she’ll be joining him as soon as she’s done eating. Geralt pays for her meal and the rooms without being asked to, sliding a handful of coins across the counter. And then he retires to their room, giving Jaskier a nod before disappearing up the stairs.

Jaskier watches him go, feels lost as he settles onto the barstool next to Yennefer.

He’s so used to following after Geralt… he hates that it isn’t an option anymore.

“I requested a bath for you as well, I strongly suggest you take advantage of my kindness.” Yennefer says absentmindedly, jabbing her fork aggressively into a piece of steak and bringing it to her lips. Jaskier’s eyes follow the movement, watches her devour it with less finesse than any of the men lining the bar eat their meals with. He can’t help it, he scoffs.

“ _Your kindness_? You didn’t even pay for it.”

“Take advantage of Geralt’s kindness, then.” Yennefer corrects with a roll of her eyes, smirking slightly as she goes about scraping up the last of her potatoes onto her fork. Jaskier glares at her openly now.

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Taking is your specialty.” Distantly, his self-preservation instincts are screaming at him to shut his mouth and turn tail, run back to his room and leave it be. It’s not his place to meddle and there are certainly smarter ways to do it than this, than picking fights with a sorceress. But he’s been holding back for days now, and damn if he accommodates for her the same way Geralt always does. No one has ever stopped Jaskier from speaking his mind before and he refuses to let her be the first.

“I _am_ quite good at taking, but if you must know, I’m not unfamiliar with the concept of giving either.”

“Wh-”

“Geralt quite enjoys switching up the roles from time to time.” 

“I didn’t ask.” Jaskier croaks out, choking on the words and the new information. He stores it away for later, determinedly does _not_ think about Geralt on his hands and knees, back arched and head bowed, letting Yennefer reach between his cheeks to finger him open. _Fuck_.

“Magic opens up an endless realm of possibilities in the bedroom.”

“Magic can make a cock where there isn’t one?”

“Mhm.” Yennefer hums in confirmation, toying with the fork against the plump curve of her bottom lip, licking the last of her meal from the prongs. Something wicked glints in her eyes and she begins to smirk, gaze dropping to Jaskier’s lap and lingering there blatantly. “Why? Are you in need of one? Is yours not up to par? It’ll cost you.”

“Shut-up, my cock is plenty capable.” Jaskier snaps at her, crossing his arms firmly over his chest and averting his gaze. This is the longest he’s ever held a conversation with her, perhaps the first time they’ve ever spoken without Geralt’s presence to act as a buffer between them. It’s… odd. 

It takes Jaskier a while to decide what he wants to ask, to work up the nerve to even consider turning back to her to ask it. But when he sneaks a glance at her, she’s downing the last of her drink and clearly preparing to leave, to head upstairs and join Geralt… so he panics. He blurts it out before he could hope to stop himself. “Can I ask you something?”

“I get the feeling you’re going to ask anyway regardless of how I answer, so spare me the dramatics.”

“Is that all it is for you? _Sex_?” His judgment rings out heavily through the words. He half expects her to slap him, or worse, but the seconds are passing them by since the question and she’s… she’s yet to react whatsoever. She keeps staring down at her empty plate, expression completely blank, like she’s reverted so deep into her own thoughts that she’s forgotten this is a conversation at all.

Jaskier swallows. Hard. 

“He loves you, you know.”

“I know.” This time, her answer is instant. 

He’s not sure how he feels about that, really. A part of him had been clinging to the hope that maybe, hopefully, she just hadn’t understood the depth of Geralt’s feelings. But to know that she’s aware of them, actively taking them into account, and still choosing to act the way she does? It ignites an anger that Jaskier can’t remember ever feeling, burning low in his gut and threatening to engulf him.

She must sense it too, her gaze unwavering as she stares at him, daring him to say something more.

If it were anyone else on the line, Jaskier would let it go. He’s a lover, not a fighter, much less a fighter against beings more-or-less all-powerful. But the fact of the matter is that it isn’t anyone else, it’s Geralt, his best friend in the whole wide world, his muse, his… his Geralt. He can’t, in good conscious, let this continue on without doing his best to intervene. To help.

“Then _why_ do you keep stringing him along? Every time he starts to move on, you pull him back like a deadly undertow. Just… let him go. Show some mercy.” Jaskier meets her gaze directly, squaring his shoulders and sitting a little taller. It’s pointless to aim for intimidating in these circumstances, but he wants her to know he’s sure of himself at least. “You’re _hurting_ him.”

For a moment, she seems to consider his words. But just as fast, she starts to chuckle low under her breath, shaking her head with what could be deep amusement. Belittlement. Dismissal.

“Hurt is the _price_ of love, bard.” She says, like it’s a common fact, like hurt and love are simply two sides of the same coin. She turns on him then, something nasty overtaking her otherworldly features, making her look far older. “But, you should know that better than anyone, _shouldn’t you_?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t think for a second that you’re the only one making observations here.” Her voice is sharp like a knife, cutting into age-old wounds Jaskier has been ignoring for months now. “How long, hm? How long have you been in love with Geralt? From the moment you met, or did it happen accidentally after you started traveling together, a possibility you never accounted for? Does your heart feel fit to burst with it? With how much affection you’re drowning in, knowing you can never express it because he’d simply never return it. And so you choke on it, swallow it down, try and fail to stomach that unrequited love you’ve known your whole life. Poor Jaskier, never good enough to _love_ , only tolerate the presence of until something newer and shinier comes along.”

For a long moment all Jaskier can think is that he would have rathered the slap, the constriction of air around his throat until he’d blacked out right there against the bar. Anything, _anything_ would have been kinder to him than the blow she’s just dealt. She’s struck him where it hurts the most.

“You’re a monster.” Jaskier breathes out, but there’s no bite left. It’s winded and broken, disjointed as he tries and fails to regather himself after being seen so wholly, called out on his innermost emotions and insecurities. He hadn’t thought he’d been so obvious, but apparently he has, and now the sorceress has pinpointed his Achilles heel. He’s _weak_ under the weight of his love.

“No, I’m simply being realistic.” 

“Simply being _sadistic_ , perhaps.”

“Funny bard.” Yennefer comments teasingly, rising to her feet and gathering her skirts underneath herself. She reaches up, settles a hand atop his head and gives him a few dismissing pats to where his soaked hair is still dripping down his neck. “Now sit here and sing your songs, while I go sit on the cock of the man you love.”

Jaskier wants to _cry_ as he watches her ascend the stairs, all but floating across the room, completely unaffected by the conversation that’ll keep him up for weeks on end now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed! If so, please subscribe for future updates and consider leaving me a comment, because I'm a slut for attention. But also, I desperately need an outlet for my interest in the witcher because no one in my life truly understands HOW invested I am and I will take every opportunity I can get to talk about it.
> 
> I can't tell you how MUCH I adore these three characters together. I love them as individuals, I love them as a group, and I love all the fun dynamics within the group. Endless potential for character growth, for miscommunication, for sexual tension, ugh, all that juicy shit that I thrive on. As the certified bitch who near rage-quitted reading the Twilight series at age 11 because I couldn't decide who I wanted Bella to end up with... sometimes, love triangles... should just end in everyone falling in love and being happy together??? 
> 
> And by sometimes I mean always.
> 
> So, here's the sitch; I'm thinking I'll update at least twice a week?? Perhaps thrice??? Dunno, it's a rare instance that I find myself with a fic pre-written so I don't know what the ideal posting schedule is. I'll just do whatever I Feel is right in my heart of hearts. Though... I might be able to be persuaded to update more frequently with kind words.... just saying. I'm easy like that.
> 
> My social medias:
> 
> @melancholymango is my main acc on twitter/tumblr  
> @redgaysonly is my nsfw fandom acc on twitter where things get horn-knee


	2. To the wild and to the both of us, I confessed the longing I was dreaming of

Months pass by and Yennefer is still traveling with them, much to Jaskier’s distaste. He’s all but gotten used to sleeping in a second room all by himself when they stop at inns, occasionally taking strangers to bed simply to pacify the loneliness he’s drowning in, considering the sex part of the exchange to be little more than an unwanted necessity to not spending the night alone. 

He’d failed to find anyone interested in bedding him tonight though, not without the aid of coins that he couldn’t bring himself to pay. So, he’s laying out in his bed alone, finally catching onto the edges of sleep’s hold when he hears it. The subtle snippy disagreement that’ll grow into something more on the other side of the wall. Jaskier braces himself, rolling over to fold the pillow over his ears.

If anything, the excess of time together has only made Geralt and Yennefer clash more, the toxicity of the relationship at an all time high. Geralt doesn’t bend to her whims as easily anymore, apparently tiring of being bossed around and trying to appease someone who’s simply never satisfied. So he’ll deny her, and she’ll grow angry, and he’ll grow angry… and Jaskier doesn’t feel the need to explain what happens when both a witcher and a sorceress are angry in the same space.

He thinks he much preferred moping Geralt to _this_.

“Fuck this!” Geralt’s voice takes on a booming quality when he gets well and truly angry, and it makes the glass at Jaskier’s bedside table rattle and threaten to topple. The pillow won’t be enough to block it out tonight then, this inn having far thinner walls than the last. Reluctantly, Jaskier gets to his feet and pulls on his clothes, eyes lidded and head groggy. “I don’t need to take this from you! You don’t own me, I’ll go where I please and I don’t need your approval to do so!”

“You’re being stubborn for no reason! It was simply a suggestion!”

“Nothing is ever _just_ a suggestion with you, Yen!”

“Oh, by all means, _please_ clarify what you mean by that.”

“The word manipulative comes to mind.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“I’m leaving until you realize how ridiculous you’re being about this.”

“Fine! Don’t come back either!” Yennefer always gets the last word in these arguments, like she can’t imagine letting Geralt walk away without it.

Jaskier pries his door open in the same second that theirs slams shut behind Geralt, as he stalks out into the hall with his shoulders hunched up around his neck and his face bent into a seething sort-of scowl. He looks well and truly like a wolf right now, with teeth bared and yellow eyes narrowed into slits. If Jaskier were a wiser man, he’d simply slip back into his room undetected and leave Geralt be.

Unfortunately, Jaskier has always been a fool for Geralt.

He steps out into the hall just as Geralt moves to pass his door, and for the first time ever, Geralt seems a little startled by his presence. Or perhaps, just startled by the gall he has to try and block his path when he’s so well and truly infuriated. Jaskier isn’t sure really, but he reaches a hand up to Geralt’s shoulder all the same, gives it a soothing rub through the thin material of his sleep shirt. Geralt stops in his tracks, like lightning caught in a bottle, adrenaline and fury still raging below the surface but delicately contained for the time being. Jaskier bites his lip, stalls for time, knows he's working within a delicate boundary. One wrong word and Geralt will take off.

“What hap-” Before Jaskier can even finish asking, Geralt’s face screws up into something pained, and he winces away from his touch. He recoils like he's been struck, a strangled helpless sort-of noise choking him out halfway up his throat. And with that, he shoves past Jaskier, nearly shoulder checks him into the wall on his way, muttering curses under his breath as he barrels down the stairs. He's a force to be reckoned with for anyone who dares to stand in his way, but Jaskier can't imagine that any will. 

Poor, poor Geralt. Oftentimes Jaskier feels like he's in over his head, wonders how he ever found himself tangled up in the affairs of a Witcher. It's an impossibly small feeling, to see all that Geralt does and to pale by comparison next to him, to feel so incredibly useless. He wonders if that's how Geralt ends up feeling when he stands next to Yennefer. 

Jaskier sighs long and hard, reaching up to scrub a hand over his face.

This has gone on long enough. 

In a fit of annoyance, Jaskier shoves the sleeves of his shirt up his arms and marches determinedly right to their door. He opens it and shoves his way inside, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. He’s been standing on the sidelines and letting them go at each other for weeks now, uncertain how wise it would be to attempt to come between them. But no more, he’s going to speak his mind, damn it. He's going to give this woman a piece of his mind, doesn't much care if he's underestimating what he's getting himself into. He won't stand by and let her tear Geralt apart, all the while pretending he's a thing beyond feeling. 

The room is… far less destroyed than he expected it to be. Aside from the blankets being knocked from the mattress and to the floor, there’s no sign that a fight happened here at all. Though he’d never imagined they were of the physical nature, only the nasty emotional kind.

“What the hell did I _just_ say?!” Yennefer’s screech has a distinctly banshee-like quality to it, enough to make Jaskier’s ears ring as he steps across the threshold and into the room. She’s out of sight, likely behind the thin screen of the room divider. And if Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d say it sounded like she was sniffling once the screech stops ringing in his ears. If he strains, listens closely, he can hear her stifling her sobs as best she can.

Fuck. Okay, he _did_ greatly underestimate what he was getting himself into, but in a different way than he ever could have imagined. He’s so not prepared for this. He never imagined in a million years that these fights were hurting _Yennefer_ too, untouchable and unfeeling Yennefer, above all weakness. 

She comes around from behind the screen in a flurry of movement, eyes wide and crazed as she turns on Jaskier like a rabid dog. “Get out! Get out, you fucking-”

She cuts herself off. Recognition dawns that she’s not talking to Geralt. Her brows furrow in confusion.

The fight doesn’t leave her, it never fully does. She’s trained herself never to trust, never to let her guard down, never to relax around anyone. But she does seem at least slightly relieved to see it’s not Geralt standing in front of her, in the same way that she seems undoubtedly disappointed. Jaskier tries not to take it personally, knows it has very little to due with him and everything to do with them.

She’s naked. It’s not his first time seeing her like this, not by far. She hadn’t been kidding all those months ago when she’d informed Jaskier of their adventurous sex life and Jaskier has become unwillingly familiar with it after walking in on countless couplings. But, well, it’s different like this.

She’s not strong and powerful, astride Geralt’s lap or digging nails into his scarred back, head tipped back in the throes of ecstasy. She’s… small, cold, skinny. Uncertain.

And if anyone were to ask Jaskier about this moment in the future, he’d deny it ever happening. He hates her, after all, and he doesn’t want anyone to get the idea that he doesn’t. But, he’s always been the caring sort, and he can’t bring himself to turn his back on someone that looks so distraught.

So he grabs a blanket from the floor, walks up to her as if every step isn’t walking further into the den of a bear, and wraps it around her trembling shoulders. She watches him warily as he does so, but for once in her life she’s lacking a snide comment. Her eyes are wet and red-rimmed and for some reason, Jaskier hates _that_ nearly as much as he hates _her_.

He meets her gaze, bites his lip in thought, tries and fails to find the right thing to say.

“Your act might fool him, brainwashed to doubt himself as he is, but I’m not fooled. Not anymore.” He informs her, reaching up to brush her hair back from her eyes. She’s glaring at him now, her suspicion growing the longer he treats her with kindness. “You care for him just as deeply as he cares for you.”

“Oh, is that so?" She scoffs, shakes her head like he's speaking utter nonsense. "And whatever would give you that impression? Have you ever known me to be anything less than bold in every aspect of my life? Why would my love be any different?”

There’s a bite to her words again now, but it’s not the same as usual. It’s not cold and callous, detached and painstakingly distant, like she’s talking at him rather than to him. It’s softer, as if telling a joke that he’s in on for once, and he can’t say that he minds it. She’s letting her walls down around him, if only for a moment, and it’s strange to catch a glimpse of her, the real her. Though there is a certain painful element to it, to see through the act and see how Yennefer has fragility about her in the same way Geralt does. 

It was... easier. To look at it in black and white, to hate the bad parts of her so ruthlessly he was blinded to the good. He doesn't want this. Doesn't want to know her.

Jaskier rolls his eyes, leads her to the bed and finds a startling lack of protest from her. She settles in the middle of the mattress, leaning back against the headboard, swaddled in blankets. Jaskier sits on the very edge at the foot of the bed, as much space between them as he can comfortably allow.

“Love _is_ different.” Jaskier says finally, licking his lips nervously at how truly out of his element he is. He never imagined, not in a million years, that he would be trying to console the sorceress. At the very least, she seems to be hearing him out and listening to what he's saying. “Love hands the power over to someone else, and then it’s out of your hands. It’s always about power with you, isn’t it? God forbid anyone else ever have any over you. It terrifies you, the thought of not being in control.”

“Don’t speak to me of cowardice, bard.” Yennefer snaps, but it’s different, softer around the edges, a playful sort of infliction rather than a painful one. Jaskier shoots her a look of bemusement, trying and failing to understand. “It’s been ten years. Ten bloody fucking years. Have you ever uttered a word of your feelings to that man? The things I fear are far worse than a rejection.”

“When you feel as deeply as I do, there _is_ nothing worse than a rejection.” Jaskier counters, cracking his knuckles. It’s odd, speaking of his feelings aloud. He’d told himself he never would, that he’d take them to his grave with him sooner than he’d burden Geralt or anyone else. But Yennefer already knows, so what harm can it possibly do to plead his case? “I can take anything. Anything the world throws at me, anything you throw at me, anything I throw at myself. I can’t take losing him.”

“Such wasted loyalty.” Yen hums, leaning her cheek against her knee. “He wouldn’t hesitate to drop you like a rock in his shoe if it was convenient for him to do so. Hell, he’s done it before, hasn’t he? Dropped you the second he thought it meant he could have me instead?”

That one stings a bit, has him drawing a sharp breath inward, gritting his teeth against the jolt of pain through him.

Again, he tries not to take it personally. It's clear that she's hurting, backed into a corner and utterly out of her comfort zone, and she's digging her claws into anything within reach to protect herself. It is funny, in a way, how she can be so similar to Geralt and so opposite in so many ways. If he looks at her through those lenses, tries to ignore the way he's predisposed to hate her because of the nature of their relationship, looks at her as if he would Geralt during a moment like this... it's easier. Geralt never means any of the cruel things he says in the heat of the moment either, not really, but that doesn't stop them from spilling past his lips.

“Has anyone ever told you that you make yourself incredibly difficult to _like_ , much less love?” Jaskier asks her, but he manages to keep his tone light.

“Pfft, and what do I care? I never asked for anyone to like me, much less love me. I'm whole without it." Yennefer says, but the words are unmistakably hollow. And then she's crumpling inward, burying her face into her hands.

Jaskier stares for a long, long moment. He's waiting on her to pull herself back together, to come back to herself and continue the conversation. When it's clear she won't be doing so on her own, he shifts closer and reluctantly places a hand on her knee. It's an incredibly stiff and awkward gesture, he pats her like one would a particularly flea-infested mutt, disgust likely apparent on his features despite himself. He hopes he manages to hide it by the time she lifts her head, violet eyes boring into his with a tiredness he's never seen reflected in them.

"Everyone wants love, Yennefer, that doesn't make you weak."

"Love is a losing game, Jaskier. Someone will always care more and someone will always care less, it’s the nature of human emotion. I’ve made a promise to myself to never be the one that cares more, never again. You know how that hurts, how that weakens you. I’m stronger to deny myself it.”

“Real strength is embracing your emotions come what may, feeling what is in your heart despite the hurt it brings. Living your life unabashedly, feeling so strongly that it consumes you. _That_ is strength. Not control, not money, not power, not fame. All of those things, while nice, are meaningless. When you're on your deathbed, will your gold comfort you? Will you smile fondly looking back on memories of the people, the places you've conquered? What good will your strength do for you then?"

"I have no intention of ever finding myself on my deathbed." 

"Fine, let me present you with an alternative scenario then." Jaskier relents with an annoyed huff, patience waning. "When the time comes and a beast of some manner or other overcomes Geralt, when he finds himself bleeding out and clinging to life white-knuckled and gasping, when he admits to himself that he's going to lose the battle rather than come out victorious... would you like for him to go through that alone? To die thinking that the woman he loved, more than anyone else he met in a century of life, felt nothing at all for him in turn? Or worse yet, chose her pride and her power over him?"

Jaskier is a storyteller, a performer. He knows well enough by now how to tell when his words land, when they hit directly on target and reach their full potential of impact. He can see it in the way she flinches, the way her eyes widen imperceptibly, the way her hands begin to shake where they hug her legs. She looks up at him and it's a seething sort-of look, venomous and vicious in turn, near as furious as she'd been with Geralt.

"Why would you _say that_?" 

"Because, you needed to hear it. If neither you nor Geralt can figure it out for yourselves, then someone will have to tell it to you straight. Unbiased."

"Jaskier, you are the most biased third party we could possibly have." Yen counters, rolling her eyes. He sees it coming even before it happens, the way she's flipping his words back on him, shifting the conversation topic because it'd been veering too close to home. And yet, he's hopeless to stop it. “Why are you trying to encourage me anyway? What could you possibly be getting out of this? Once he has me fully, what use does he have for you?”

Ah, yes, that is the question, isn't it? Jaskier asks himself it countless times a day, lets it keep him up at night, lets the worry and the dread of it all consume him.

“I don’t know.” Jaskier admits, swallows hard around the lump in his throat. He wants to believe that Geralt would still keep him around, for entertainment or compensation’s sake if nothing else. But… he does get the feeling that he intrudes on their relationship as it is, and if it were of a more romantic than sexual nature… Jaskier is sure he would get in the way. Yennefer had said it herself, Geralt could and would drop him the moment he became an inconvenience to him. He's done it before, what's to stop him from doing it again?

And sure, there's been a manner of regret about it, and though Geralt had never apologized with words Jaskier had always known he was sorry for it. But... that doesn't change the fact that he'd done it, that he'd said such awful things and they dug into Jaskier like barbed wire. Geralt has a bit of magical ability in himself, you see, the ability to form entirely new insecurities in Jaskier where there'd never been any before. In truth, Jaskier had never been as thoughtlessly confident as he liked to let on he was, but he'd also never fixated on his shortcomings like he does now. He's never been so hyper-aware of how annoying he's being, how his actions could spiral into something more, how he's only ever a hair's breadth away from irritating Geralt so badly that it outdoes all the good he offers.

He's been extra mindful since they reunited, catches himself when he's holding anything remotely close to a spade and stops himself before he shovels the shit in Geralt's direction.

He doesn't sleep around, he limits his lute-playing to reasonable hours of the day and only when Geralt is in a particularly amicable mood, he never whines about their lodgings or their less-than-satisfactory meals. He contents himself with what he has, doesn't press, doesn't pry. He knows his place now, knows it well.

He ignores the way that makes him hurt, deep in the trenches of his heart. “It doesn’t matter, either. I want him to be happy, to have what he wants. What he wants is you, so the least I can do is try to make sure it makes him happy rather than hurts him at every turn he takes. Militele knows he’s too dense to look out for himself that way.”

This causes her to laugh again and even though he’s hurting, Jaskier catches himself smiling.

“Isn’t he just?” Yennefer sighs, eerily familiar to a lovestruck maiden, something Jaskier wouldn’t have dreamed to associate her with before this very moment. The fondness in her expression is immeasurable and Jaskier doesn’t know how he doubted it before tonight. She’s clearly just as taken with Geralt as he is with her, but they’re both standing in their own way when it comes to expressing their true feelings.

It would make for a lovely song, if Jaskier could stomach writing it.

"You love him too, don't you?"

"Love is a harsh word, don't you think?" Yen chuckles, but it's strained, forced out of her. “I’ll admit that I do care for him, though. I’m not out to hurt him, not intentionally.”

“It doesn’t matter what your intentions are, not when your impact is something so starkly different.” Jaskier suits her with a look.

"And what would you have me do, bard? I'm not going to propose to the man, confess my undying love to him. It's not in my nature, surely you know that by now?"

"It doesn't have to be dramatic and bold, you can start smaller." Jaskier explains. “Go after him. Comfort him.”

“I don’t know the first thing of comfort.” Yennefer dismisses immediately with a wave of her hand, sinking down into the mattress like she has every intention of falling asleep. Jaskier can’t help but gape at her. He thought they’d made progress, that she was realizing her wrongs, was willing to swallow her pride and- “You do it.”

“ _Excuse me_?”

“Well, I can’t very well call you my rival if you don’t give yourself a fighting chance.” Yennefer says it so casually, almost flippant about it, like Jaskier being in love with the man she loves is admirable rather than wildly inappropriate. He can't tear his eyes from hers, confusion no doubt written across his face. “Go. Comfort him. This is where you excel, bard, matters of the heart. So, show him what you have to offer."

"You can't be serious."

"You're not without your own... _charms_ , smarmy and uncouth as they are. I've seen the noble men and women you've managed to woo, it's an impressive roster. Why is it that you think Geralt is so far out of your reach? He's a far simpler man than most of them. He likes to be fed, fucked, and kept company. He doesn't care for the politics of love, for the milestones and the labels that other men will seek from you. So why is it you've talked yourself out of it before ever trying?"

"I have something to lose." Jaskier admits, sounding impossibly small. He looks down at his lap, fiddles with his hands, tries not to think too hard about how he's expressing his weakest point to someone who, on all accounts, should be considered an enemy. It doesn't help that she goes quiet to consider his words, putting actual thought into her response for once, like she wants to be sure she navigates this right.

"I don't think you need worry." She says then, slowly. When that alone doesn't perk Jaskier up, she pokes her bare toes into his side, sliding them beneath the hem of his sleepshirt and digging them into his skin. He slaps her foot away with a grumble and then she's doubling back even quicker, but this time it's the whole of her crawling toward him across the mattress, blanket left behind and bare skin on display again. She settles behind his back, leans her chin against his shoulder, drapes her arms around his midsection like touching him so casually is a normal. "Trust me, he's not as easy to get rid of as you think."

"Easy for you to say, you're bonded together by djinn magic." Jaskier scoffs.

He realizes belatedly that his words have landed terribly, as caught up in his own thoughts as he is. It isn't until he feels her shifting away from him, tense and withdrawn, that he knows he's hit a sensitive spot in her armor. He turns to her, eyebrows furrowed. He doesn't understand what he said wrong.

“You should go. Who knows what trouble he’s getting himself into in that state he was in.” Yennefer gestures toward the door without a hint of hesitation. Her expression and tone are both carefully blank now, practiced and rehearsed. He shakes his head, getting to his feet and looking back at her one last time. He almost wishes he didn't have to leave her, when she still looks so melancholy. He hopes that he helped, rather than made matters worse.

“And you? How is your current state?”

“Better.” She answers simply, nodding her head. Neither of them address the unspoken, that Jaskier was the one to help her feel better. That feels like crossing a line for them, a thinly-veiled boundary. They still hate each other after all, are in direct competition with each other by nature. They’re not friends.

\--

After that, Jaskier goes about the troublesome task of finding where Geralt has taken himself to ride out his tumultuous emotions. He has a habit of it, of hiding when he feels most overwhelmed. He lashes out, makes sure no one will be stupid enough to follow, and then goes off on his own to _feel_.

For all the rumors that witchers don’t feel, Jaskier would argue that they feel twice as much as humans.

Or, at the very least, they’re half as equipped to handle their emotions as humans are and therefore it _feels_ like something more. After all, being taught to hide your emotions your entire life makes it hard to familiarize yourself with them, to learn good coping mechanisms and ways to express yourself. Geralt feels just as much as anyone else does, he just doesn’t feel entitled to it, doesn’t think he’s allowed to. It confuses him, which in turn angers him, until he works himself into a fit about it.

Jaskier eventually finds him, settled hunched over at the edge of the riverbank just outside of the village. If it weren’t for the fact he’d taken Roach and she was grazing idly beside him, Jaskier never would have seen him there in the darkness. He’s made himself as small as a man as big as Geralt can ever hope to be, curled up tight and stiff.

Hesitantly, knowing that Geralt heard him approaching long before Jaskier even knew he was here, he tests the waters. He starts by just sitting down beside Geralt, not uttering a word, not even daring to breathe just yet. Geralt is flighty when he gets like this, prone to get to his feet and relocate at the very first sign of a threat. He’s tense and ready to spring, just waiting on Jaskier to fuck this up.

But… Jaskier stays quiet. Unmoving. Calm as he can manage to be when Geralt is radiating chaos.

Eventually, the tension starts to bleed out of Geralt’s posture, as he uncurls and sits up straighter. He’s far from relaxed though, that’s going to take far more work. But, he’s not actively ready to bolt, waiting on his chance to. Still, Jaskier doesn’t speak.

“I’m not in the fucking mood, Jaskier.” Geralt says, eventually, of his own violation. Jaskier resists the urge to smile at how good he’s gotten at this. Handling a man like Geralt is unlike anything else he’s ever done, but he likes to think he understands how he operates by now. He’s like a stray cat, in a way, just needs you to stand by until he comes to you out of curiosity.

“I brought you more ale.” Jaskier offers, grabbing the bottle from his bag and holding it out.

“Hm.”

Geralt grabs for it like he’s been dehydrated for weeks, popping the cork with his teeth and downing it so quickly that Jaskier once again has to silently praise himself for thinking to bring more than one bottle. It isn’t the sort-of thing he’d encourage with literally anyone else, drowning your sorrows with the bottle, it had a tendency to get out of hand. But, Geralt only really allows himself to acknowledge the fact he has feelings at all when he’s downed enough ale to kill a normal man.

“A lovely night, isn’t it?”

“Out with it then.” Geralt growls at him, tossing the emptied bottle aside and going digging in Jaskier’s bag for the next one without so much as a nod of permission. He slows down slightly with this bottle, bringing it back from his lips to add another comment after just one sip. “Stop biting your tongue, I know you have some choice words to share about that exchange you just witnessed.”

Jaskier pointedly ignores his goading, knows better than to fall victim to the trap Geralt is trying to set, begging him to mess up so he has a reason to storm away in a fit of rage and angst. Instead, Jaskier reaches down between them, traces his fingers over Geralt’s hip where he’d been bitten the day before.

“How’s your hip? May I?” Jaskier asks hesitantly, fingers ghosting across the slither of skin visible below the hem of Geralt’s sleepwear. All he gets in response is a grunt of acknowledgement, but that speaks wonders in itself, so Jaskier makes quick work of shucking up his shirt and peeling the bandages back from the wound. It’s still a nasty looking thing, but it’s scabbed over now, the reddened flesh around it beginning to pale again. 

Jaskier smiles up at him. Geralt’s expression remains blank. “It’s healing nicely. I think you’ve cheated death again, Geralt of Rivia. I’ll apply more salve in the morning and change your bandages, but there are no signs of infection so I think you’re out of the woods.”

“What are you _doing_?”

“What? You’ve never complained about me tending to your wounds before.”

“It’s not about that. It’s about… what you’re _not_ doing.”

“What I’m not doing?”

“This is your cue, isn’t it?” Geralt hisses finally, anger beginning to bubble back to the surface. It isn’t directed at Jaskier though, there’s a distinction there that matters. It’s all directed inward now, and Geralt would never let that show around anyone he didn’t wholly trust. “Beg me to see reason, to turn my back on her and not look back. Tell me all the reasons I’m a fool to wait on her, to expect anything to change after all this time. Hell, pour salt into the wound, I know how much you love being right about things. That’s what you’re supposed to do in these situations, is it not?”

“ _Geralt_.” Jaskier breathes, soft and full of sympathy. It earns him a sideways glance, a deepened scowl, but he can’t help but let his fondness show in moments like these. Geralt probably thinks it’s pity in Jaskier’s tone, but that’s so far from the truth it isn’t funny. “It’ll be okay, you’ll see.”

“Don’t mock me, bard.” Geralt moves to get to his feet and leave with a snarl, but Jaskier acts before he can think and grabs for his hand. Geralt freezes, wide-eyed and stoic, staring down at where Jaskier is tugging determinedly on his arm. It’s not enough to knock him off his feet and onto his ass, not even all of Jaskier’s strength would be. If he really wanted to go, it wouldn’t be enough to keep him here.

“I’m not mocking!” Jaskier insists, staring up at him. “I’m trying to help!”

“You’re not.”

“Well, let me try harder then!” Jaskier snaps back at him, perhaps a bit shorter than he should allow himself to be when Geralt is feeling so volatile. But, much to his surprise, Geralt not only doesn’t rise to the challenge… he also sinks back down to the grass next to him with a quiet sigh. Jaskier blinks.

That’s never happened before. Usually when Geralt makes up his mind to leave, he’s gone.

It causes a surge of something protective in Jaskier’s chest that he can’t help but indulge, as he crowds closer and prays with all he has that Geralt won’t simply bat him away. Soon, he’s plastered against Geralt’s side and sharing his warmth in the cool autumn night air. Hesitantly, eyeing the space until his eyes near bug out of his head, Jaskier rests his head on Geralt’s shoulder. Aside from a quiet huff of a noise, low in Geralt’s chest, there’s no sign of protest or approval. 

But now that Jaskier’s here, he couldn’t imagine ever _not_ being here. Even if Geralt were to attempt to pry him off like an unwanted leech on his skin, Jaskier would have no choice but to cling on. Geralt is a wall of muscle, his chest solid and unforgiving, his shoulder unfairly thick and pillow-like. Under different circumstances, Jaskier is certain he could fall asleep like this and sleep better than he has in any shitty inn bed for years. 

Their hands are still clasped together, clumsily and without any purpose, settled on Geralt’s thigh since he sat back down. Slowly, with bated breath and his heart fluttering like a hummingbird’s in his chest, Jaskier takes the risk and threads their fingers together. Still, no reaction.

“How are you? Really?” 

“Pretty shit, Jaskier, what do you _think_?” Geralt mutters under his breath, using his free hand to grab for the bottle again and down a few more gulps. Jaskier nods minutely, smoothing his thumb across Geralt’s knuckle, hoping it comes across as a soothing gesture and not just a blatant indulgence. Jaskier can’t help himself, it’s the wee hours of the morning and it’s been so very long since he’s had this closeness, Yennefer always coming between them. He’s giddy with it.

“I’m sorry.” Jaskier tells him, exhaling softly. “I know it’s hard, all of this emotion bullshit. It’s hard on the best of us, you know, so don’t beat yourself up over struggling with it. It’s normal, as much as I’m sure it doesn’t feel it right now. I didn’t mean to dismiss how you were feeling earlier, I only meant to try and reassure you. As bad as things are now, I have confidence that you’ll work them out.”

“Hm.”

And as much as Jaskier wants to prolong this moment, wants to never move from the spot and indulge in this like he so deserves to after being so faithful for so very long… this isn’t what he came here for. Like it or not, it’s not as simple as showing Geralt what he’s missing and stealing him away from Yennefer. 

Though half the husbands in the continent would argue otherwise, Jaskier is no homewrecker. Yes, he’s slept with married women, and married men, he’s no stranger to the concept of affairs. But it’s never been with the knowledge that he’s breaking up a happy home. Usually, the married people he sleeps with are locked into unhappy relationships without their consent, whether because of their parent’s wishes or society’s. They’re not happy and they know they never will be, so they want an escape, and Jaskier is all too happy to be that for them.

But Geralt and Yennefer, despite all of their distances and all of their mule headedness standing between them, they have the opportunity to be something great. They need work, so much work, and it won’t come easy… but they can be happy together. Now that Jaskier knows they both love each other, he can’t bring himself to try and tear them apart like he’s been longing to for so long. He would never be so selfish.

And Geralt would never be well and truly content without her, not at the cost of never knowing if they could have been. So he has to try, and Jaskier has to let him, has to help him all he can. It’s simply the path he must trudge. 

“You should go back and talk to her.” Jaskier suggests through his teeth, trying not to wince around the words as they cut the whole way up his throat. He disentangles himself, ignores the way the cold sinks right into his bones without Geralt’s heat to combat it. “After you left… she seemed upset, like she regretted what she’d said in the heat of the moment. She’s likely to slip out in the night if you don’t go back soon and work things out.”

“Then let her go.” Geralt grunts. “She’s a damn curse. I’d be better off if I’d never met her.”

“That’s not necessarily true. She’s made you a lot softer around the edges. Helped you understand emotions better… _anger included_.”

“Anger _definitely_ included.”

“Just try to talk to her. I think you’d be surprised to know how much she’s feeling the same as you are right now.” Jaskier tries again to convince him, leaning back on his hands. He brushes a patch of dandelions with his hands and without thinking, he grabs them up in his grip and holds them out to Geralt in offering. “Here, give her these.”

“ _Flowers_?” Geralt’s nose twitches. “What use does a sorceress have for a handful of wildflowers?”

“It’s not about usefulness, it’s… about thoughtfulness. Showing that you’re thinking of her, that you care for her still, that you’re at the very least _willing_ to fix things.” Jaskier tries to explain. “Trust me.”

“And I should go… _now_?” Geralt looks over his shoulder, back toward the village. He still looks uncertain, but there’s a level of trust there as he accepts the flowers from Jaskier’s hand, trusts his words at face value. It’s bittersweet in the worst of ways.

“The sooner the better.” Jaskier confirms, nodding his head. He gets his knees underneath himself and shifts closer to Geralt in the grass, reaches up to where his hair is a messy halo of white atop his head, no doubt frazzled from running his fingers through it in frustration. Jaskier shushes him, despite the fact Geralt hasn’t even made a complaint, and starts to thread his fingers gently through the knots in his fair hair. “Here, let me fix this. You don’t want to return to her looking like your mother fucked a snowman.”

“Shut-up. I never should have told you about that.” Geralt smiles though, wide and unabashed, and everything feels right between them again. Making the odd fond callback to old adventures together is a gamble, sometimes Jaskier worries that Geralt won’t remember them, that they didn’t mean near as much to the witcher as they meant to him. After all, he’s been doing this for decades before Jaskier and will likely do it for decades after, so Jaskier’s best memories with him were probably but a blip on the long lifespan of a witcher, fading into obscurity in his memory.

But, almost always, Geralt remembers them just as vividly. Jaskier tells himself it’s because they were some of Geralt’s best memories too, but perhaps being a witcher has just heightened his memory. 

Sometimes, when they’re having a moment together and Jaskier knows that Geralt is well and truly relaxed, he’ll be brave and allow himself to braid the long white hair that he loves so much. It usually doesn’t get far, nary more than childish braid in one strand of hair before Geralt gets antsy and slaps his hands away, undoing his hard work with a few brutal tugs. But tonight, Jaskier is reluctant to let go of the moment, even now that Geralt’s hair is free of knots and falling elegantly around his shoulders.

So, curiously, he begins to pull Geralt’s hair back from his temples and braid it together at the back of his head. It’s the most elaborate thing he’s ever attempted to do. Strangely, Geralt doesn’t immediately groan in protest and shrink away from it. He just… sits there. 

And Jaskier, oh, he has a field day. Once he realizes that he’s been given permission, he undoes the braid and redoes it as something much more intricate. Long, plated, beautiful braids that interweave along the back of his head. It’s beautiful. It’s his best work yet, better than any braids he’d ever managed to do for his younger sisters, and likely better than any of his songs. Even after he’s finished, he keeps tweaking it, unwilling to stop when he knows this will be a once in a lifetime opportunity.

“It’ll be a shame when someday you ruin your hair beyond repair and we have to cut it.” 

“We’re not cutting my hair.”

“Oh, trust me, I’m an advocate for it as much as the next guy. You wouldn’t be Geralt without it. But surely there’s an extent of what I can do to save it?” Jaskier muses, thinking back on all the various substances he’s scrubbed out of these poor locks over the years. Damn, there were times he was sure the white of his hair would stain, or at the very least knot beyond repair. Sometimes it took hours to work the blood and guts from every individual strand but Geralt was always obedient during those times, not protesting whatsoever when he knew what was at stake and what a favor Jaskier was doing for him by helping out. “Perhaps if we keep it in a braid more often it’ll be less likely to get ruined.”

“Why do I get the feeling you’re pushing an agenda here?” 

“Me? Never.” Jaskier gasps, throwing a hand over his heart. Finally, Geralt fidgets under his hands, and shifts around to look at him. Jaskier smiles back at him, gesturing to the whole of his head rather unhelpfully given that Geralt has no way of seeing his work. “You look good.”

“I’ll take your word for it.” Geralt grumbles awkwardly, averting his eyes. Then, much quieter, less sarcastic all-around, “Thanks.”

“No need to thank me. Happy to help a friend woo his fair lady.” Geralt pulls a face at this and Jaskier can’t help it, laughter bubbles up from his gut and fills the quiet of the night. It’s easier, like this. To make a joke at his own expense the moment things get serious and real between them. It hurts less, distracts him from what he really wants. “But, really, you should go. The sooner the better. She’s probably waiting on you.”

Jaskier half expects him to jump to his feet and take off running, but instead he stretches languidly out across the grass. He stares up at Jaskier, yellows eyes completely fixated on him. It’s unsettling.

“You don’t like her.” Geralt points out, like Jaskier has somehow forgotten the fact himself. 

“I don’t.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“Because, you _do_ like her.” Jaskier says, simply, as if that’s answer enough. Apparently it isn’t. Geralt is looking at him like he’s lost his marbles, like he’s done something utterly stupid and self-sacrificing. And damn it, perhaps it isn’t normal to sacrifice your own wants and desires for the sake of a friend’s. Maybe he’s being too obvious here, but he can’t help himself. Geralt just looks so… striking, in the moonlight, completely at ease for the first time in days. 

But Jaskier takes the easy way out again, turns it into a joke. “And I can hardly stand to watch you mope for weeks on end again.”

“I don’t mope.”

“Yeah, sure, you don’t mope the same way you don’t like chamomile and you hate having your hair braided. I believe you.” Jaskier ignores the sour look Geralt is giving him now, like he’s ruined the moment somehow by teasing. He just… doesn’t know what else he’s meant to do. Geralt is an enigma at the best of times, but this is completely untrodden territory and damn it, Jaskier has no idea how he’s meant to act here. What does Geralt want from him?! He’s just one man. 

One hopelessly, foolishly, devoted man. 

“Go to her, Geralt.”

“Thank-you, Jas.” Geralt tells him, completely earnest now. “You’re so much… simpler than she is.”

“I’m offended by that, but I think you meant it as a compliment so I’ll try to take it as such.”

“If it doesn’t work out, you can expect me in your bed when you return.” Geralt informs him bluntly, like he’s completely unaware of how his words sound to the untrained ear. Jaskier’s heart threatens to beat clean out of his chest at the thought, the implication. “I’ll be damned if I have to sleep in my bedroll just because she’s having a fit and won’t let me back in our room.”

“Y-Yeah, no trouble. If it comes to it, I’m happy to share.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I totally forgot to mention in the first chapter, but this fic was originally titled "Her Sweet Kiss" before I decided that I wanted to have a theme of naming my witcher fics after Hozier songs. SO, the first couple chapters are extra angsty bc I listened to Her Sweet Kiss on repeat the entire time I wrote them gfjhfjhgdj. I'm So Sorry. 
> 
> Jaskier wrote Her Sweet Kiss about Yennefer/Geralt you literally Cannot tell me otherwise. I won't listen!!
> 
> ALSO i started playing through witcher 3 last night and I could /not/ put it down, it was 5am and i was sitting there with tears in my eyes like "geralt hot :((((((( i love him :((((" 
> 
> ok that's all for now folks, hope you're enjoying so far!! leave me a comment i am VeerrRRrrrY LoneLy 
> 
> My social medias:
> 
> @melancholymango is my main acc on twitter/tumblr  
> @redgaysonly is my nsfw fandom acc on twitter where things get horn-knee


	3. When our truth is burned from history, by those who figured justice in fond memory

The thing is, not entirely unlike every other aspect of traveling with a witcher, eventually you get used to the life-risking scenarios and begin to take them in stride.

Jaskier has cheated death and been saved by Geralt more times than he would like to recount, and Geralt himself is a walking miracle in Jaskier's eyes after seeing firsthand some of the things he’s survived. It’d taken a while to get used to, a long while, but eventually Jaskier had reached the point where he hadn’t assumed the worst every time Geralt went off on a hunt without him. There came a time where he had to admit to himself that Geralt was far more capable than he could even comprehend, and that he'd been fine for a century so far, would likely be fine for the rest of Jaskier's meager life as well.

Of course he still worries, perhaps more than he should, but it's a manageable kind of worry. Instead of making himself sick with it, it's just a gnawing sort-of concern that eats away at his mind much slower. If he keeps repeating to himself that Geralt will be fine, he can almost believe it, and then like clockwork Geralt shows up relatively unscathed like he always does. It's useless to panic anyway, there isn’t a thing he can do one way or the other. He's about as useful in a monster fight as a ball and chain, and he’d only weigh Geralt down if he were to go in search of him.

But, damn it, a day or two isn’t the same as ten days.

It’s vastly, jarringly, and wholly different. It’s a new record, a threshold that they’ve never crossed before. A lot can happen in ten days.

Ten whole days. Without a word from Geralt. 

When he'd left, he'd assured them that he had enough information on the beast's whereabouts and all the supplies to lure it to him, that the battle itself shouldn't take longer than a few hours and he'd be back before nightfall. That was ten days ago. And look, Jaskier knows as much as the next guy that griffins are tough shit, that there are even different thresholds and levels to _how_ tough they can be depending on the subspecies... but surely, surely, Geralt wouldn't have underestimated his opponent. He's fought griffins before, knows them to be formidable foes, unless he stumbled upon a pair of them and a nest of little vicious griffin ankle-biters, what the hell is keeping him?!

Like usual, it's Yen that ends up drawing Jaskier from his spiraling concerned thoughts. This time, with a wild carrot hitting him upside the head. 

“Would you stop pacing, you mindless bastard?! If you must fidget, do something productive with your hands and help me cook. If Geralt comes back tonight, I’m sure he’ll appreciate a warm meal.” As of right now, Jaskier likes to think that him and Yen have drawn a truce, deciding to tolerate each other for the greater good. The first few days, they'd been getting on well enough, even chatting idly around the fire late at night when they were waiting up for Geralt's return, still hopeful. 

Though, Yen _has_ been getting progressively snappier with every day that passes... but Jaskier knows it’s only because she worries as well. He can’t really blame her, she has her methods of coping, and he has his.

Like pacing.

And so he continues, walking back and forth through the clearing, boots pushing down into soft moss.

“And if he doesn’t?” Jaskier questions, entertaining the question they’ve been skirting around for days now. But ten is a nice even number, ten is an acceptable amount, ten is when they should start to discuss their options and make a plan. Jaskier’s certain he won’t last through day eleven if they don’t do something soon. He needs answers. “We should go look for him, don’t you think?”

“If the griffin has killed him, then it’ll simply kill us as well.” Yennefer huffs, continuing to peel the carrots in front of the fire. She dumps a few into the stewpot, then slips an unpeeled one to Roach where she lingers nearby, expectant. Jaskier keeps staring at her though, wide-eyed and hopeful, desperation plain across his features. Eventually, she’s forced to address him further, unable to take his pouting. “Three more days, alright? If he’s not back within three days' time, then we’ll pack up and go our separate ways. We can mourn on our own time, far away from the danger. It’s what he would have wanted for us.”

“ _What_ ?” Jaskier croaks, choking around what might have been a sob. “You’re going to _leave_ him?”

That’s the last thing he expected her to say. Lately, her and Geralt have been getting along much better than they used to as well. They still bicker, but that’s to be expected given they’re vastly different people with contrasting views. But they always reach a compromise, never walking away from the fight still angry. And maybe when they kiss and make up it still hurts somewhere deep down in his core, but in the same breath Jaskier is startled by the amount of pride that consumes him seeing how hard they’re working to make it work. How could he fault them now? When they’re both doing their best?

It’s possible this is her way of softening the blow of the loss, picking up the pieces of her heart and walking away while she still has her pride about her. But Jaskier can’t imagine it, can’t imagine ever turning his back on Geralt no matter the odds. Where else would he turn to?

“If he doesn’t return, it’s safe to assume he’s already dead. There’s no use in getting us killed as well.”

“You really _are_ a heartless wench.” Jaskier growls at her, snatching his bag off the bedroll and slinging it over his shoulder. It’s still light outside, but that’ll change in a few short hours. He doesn’t have much time to work with here, but he can’t wait until sunrise. He just can’t. “I don’t care what you say. I’m going to find him. I won’t wait another minute, let alone three days.”

“Jaskier.” Yennefer’s tone is even, but there’s something unhinged lurking just beyond the surface of it, a kind of passive-aggressive scolding that Jaskier had only ever associated with his mother before meeting Yen. She doesn’t even have to say it, he knows exactly how and why she disapproves. “Don’t be an idiot. Love makes you weak, but it doesn’t have to make you stupid.”

“How many times do I have to tell you? There is no life for me without him. He’s given me everything I’ve ever wanted. A purpose, an audience, an adventure… a companion. I can’t go back to what my life was before, not now that I know so much more. If I must die for him, then I will.”

“Damn it. You really _are_ a braindead bard.” Yennefer gets to her feet, but Jaskier doesn’t wait to see what she’s doing. He charges blindly into the forest, in the same way that Geralt had all those days ago. There isn’t a path to follow, but Jaskier will just have to trust his instincts and hope for the best.

He makes it about thirty paces out when a hand settles on his arm and yanks him backward, startling him into letting out a manly squeak. He hadn’t even heard anyone approaching, damn it! Still, the moment he’s got his wits about him, he whips around in hopes of seeing Geralt and instead finds Yen’s much darker eyes boring into his.

“I can’t, in good conscious, let you get yourself killed.” Yen informs him, like she’s admitting to a great travesty and it pains her dearly. “Geralt would be pissed if he found out I let you do this at all. For some reason I simply cannot fathom, he seems to enjoy your company. Babbling, fidgeting, and stupid heroics included.”

“We’re friends, Yennefer, that’s generally how friendships work.” Jaskier shrugs her off, but he doesn’t protest at all when he starts ahead and she dutifully follows at his side. It’s nice to have someone with him right now, when he feels so turbulent... even if it's fucking Yennefer. “We look out for each other, take care of each other, care about each other. I know it’s a bizarre concept to you, but try to understand.”

“I’ve _had_ friends. Fat lot of good it brought me.” 

“Well then, perhaps you haven’t had the right ones yet.” Jaskier answers her easily, using his dagger to attempt to cut away some of the thorn bushes. He wishes dearly that Geralt would leave a trail of breadcrumbs behind himself or something, just in case. He’ll have to bring it up to him when they reunite, make a formal suggestion and complaint alike when he saves the oaf’s life. 

“And who would the right friends be? You and Geralt?”

“What? No.” Jaskier pauses in his tracks at that, drawn from his sidetracked thoughts. He turns, staring at her in utter confusion. “We’re not _friends_.”

“Oh, we’re not?” She has the gall to look surprised. Jaskier glares.

“No, we hate each other.” Jaskier tells her slowly, like she needs the extra time to understand. Yen isn’t stupid though, and she seems to take offense to the implication, if the fist to his shoulder is anything to go by. He curses lowly, shoving her away from him with a grunt. “See? Friends don’t punch each other.”

“I’ve _seen_ Geralt punch you.”

“Well, yeah, that’s different.”

“Because you _like it_ when he does it? Does it _hurt so good_?”

“Fuck off, Yennefer.” Jaskier tells her, shaking his head and charging ahead with renewed vigor, if only to put space between the two of them.

Despite the years and despite the fact he’s begrudgingly accepted that she’s going to stay a part of Geralt’s life for the foreseeable future, he still finds it tense to be alone in her company. She’s… hard to read, to understand. Is she joking with him now at his expense? Or did she genuinely believe they were friends and is hurt by the information that they’re not? He’ll never know because her expression gives nothing away until he says something that she can use against him. 

Anyway, it doesn’t matter really, they have more important things to focus on and they’re running out of daylight as they waste time bickering. So Jaskier doesn’t give the conversation a chance to continue, just keeps on marching ahead through the thick underbrush of the forest.

Much later, the sun has just dipped below the trees and Yennefer is using her magic to hold a flame for them so Jaskier can see ahead, because he’s completely refused to stop for the night. It doesn't help that the forest has only grown thicker here, the trees much older and taller, completely blanketing the ground with pitch black darkness, not a star in sight. He can’t shake the feeling that they’re running out of time, that so much as a break in their search could cost them. He won’t rest until he sees Geralt with his own eyes and can confirm he’s safe.

And then they stumble upon _a_ beast.

It's not _the_ beast, the griffin, even in it's current flayed state that much is abundantly clear.

It’s dead, thank the gods, completely and utterly obliterated into a thousand pieces. Its innards are clinging to the surrounding trees, it’s body torn into pieces with clean slices that confirm a sword was the weapon to do so. It’s an ugly thing, nothing Jaskier has ever seen before, and it's hard to get the full idea of what it would look like if all of its many, many, many limbs weren't severed from the rest of what remains of it. While Jaskier is at a loss as to what it is aside from being some manner of giant icky insect, Yennefer’s eyes brighten with recognition when she sees it and then darken with something much, much worse. 

Jaskier steps closer to her, reaches down before he thinks better of it and squeezes her hand. She looks as if she’s seen a ghost, truthfully. Whether they hate each other or not, she clearly needs the support.

“An arachas... venomous one, too. There's a few young ones littered around too, now that I'm looking.This isn’t good.” She admits quietly, giving Jaskier a frown. 

And for Yennefer to admit that, to take a look at their odds and feel defeated rather than inspired to fight harder? That’s all the confirmation that Jaskier needs to know he was _right_ to worry. She’s faced dire odds, fought unimaginable battles and come out the other side alive, she’s nearly as badass as Geralt himself as much as Jaskier has always been loathe to admit it. Something is very, very wrong for her to look so helpless.

"What's this mean, Yennefer?"

"Depends, I suppose, if Geralt stumbled across it before or after his battle with the griffin." Yen looks at Jaskier, violet eyes burdened by heavy emotion. "It's not good, Jaskier, if that's what you're asking. The venom in these things could put even Geralt in an early grave, if left untreated. As much as I want to believe he had the right materials on hand to cure himself, this isn't what he came out here hunting, this isn't what he was preparing for. Hell, they're sort-of rare, near extinct, I doubt anyone is ever fully prepared to take on one of these."

Jaskier tears away from her, circles around the nearby trees for any sign of Geralt. He's watchful to steer clear of any suspicious-looking dark patches in the dirt, not wanting to chance stepping in any of that aforementioned venom and winding up poisoned. He'll be of no help to Geralt like that. Even as it is, he's starting to doubt himself, starting to fear for the worst. Yennefer is getting overly involved now too, searching with increasing desperation, and that's doing nothing to calm his nerves.

His steadily-growing panic progresses into full-blown hysteria when he finds a familiar silver sword abandoned in the dirt.

His heart drops down to his feet. He kneels to pick it up, feels his eyes well up with unshed tears that he’s quick to blink away. _It’s fine_. Geralt has other weapons, plenty of ‘em, one sword lost is hardly a hit. It’s just… Geralt _doesn’t_ leave his weapons behind, they’re a part of him as much as his limbs. And this is _his sword_ , the one he treasures, the one he had hand-crafted by a master blacksmith, his monster-slaying sidekick. Hell, he doesn't even let Jaskier touch the damn thing, spends an hour each night polishing it until it shines clear enough to see his reflection in the silver. He would never just leave it discarded in the dirt...

This time, it’s Yennefer to comfort Jaskier, her hand settling on his shoulder and squeezing. 

But it isn’t encouraging, it isn’t a call to arms, it’s… it’s sympathetic. It’s sad.

And Jaskier won’t accept it, he shrugs her off and clambers to his feet, brandishing Geralt’s sword as his own weapon as he continues looking around the nearby trees. If Geralt was injured and incapable of making it back to camp, there’s no telling what he might do to hide himself from predators. He could be anywhere, in a bottomless cave or perched on the brittle branches of the highest tree in the forest. He’s good at camouflage, could hide himself well if he needed to.

“Damn it, where is he?!” Jaskier curses, hours later, as he falls down onto a stump and buries his face into his hands. Yennefer isn’t far, just out of sight through the trees, looking for Geralt in the places Jaskier hasn’t checked yet. Except he has checked them. He’s checked them all. He’s checked everything within a three hundred foot radius of where they found the beast.

And… and there’s nothing. No sign of him at all.

When Yennefer comes to him an hour later, the sun is rising, and even still it doesn't offer much for light in the depths of the forest. He’s ventured even further from the beast’s corpse in search of Geralt and had no luck at all. He’s at the end of his wits, exhaustion beginning to torment him on top of his already chaotic emotions. He’s a second away from tears at any given moment, as he stumbles blindly around the forest.

So when Yennefer approaches him, looking all soft and hesitant, more caring than she has any fucking right to be when it doesn’t suit her at all… maybe the tension snaps.

“I’m not going back to the fucking camp, so don’t even suggest it. Not until I find him.”

“Jaskier… what if you _never_ find him? His corpse could be just as shredded as that monster’s by now.”

“Then I’ll never go back.” He insists childishly, folding his arms over his chest and clumsily handling Geralt’s silver sword to keep from nicking himself in the process. She sighs long and hard, raking her eyes over his disheveled form. Now that he’s looking at her, really looking, she looks tired too. Stressed. 

“Listen to yourself. Imagine what Geralt would say if he was here.”

“Well, we’ll have to ask him when we find him.” Jaskier growls out through gritted-teeth, hands shaking at his sides with emotions too heavy to distinguish. She’s already talking about him like he’s gone from their lives forever and he can’t hear it, won’t hear it. “If you want to give up on him, then go. I won’t.”

“Do you seriously think that I’m not hurting too?!” Yennefer charges toward him, arm raised as if to land a punch right to his face. And Jaskier doesn’t protest, he braces himself for it, clenches his jaw and closes his eyes tight as he awaits impact. Only, it never hits, and when he opens his eyes she’s standing right in front of him. She looks run-ragged, exhausted beyond her ageless years, and though Jaskier doubts himself he thinks he might see the shine of tears in her eyes as well. “Geralt would _want_ you to go back, Jaskier. Like it or not, if he were here right now that’s exactly what he’d say, that your life is too valuable to throw away for his sake. H-He would want you to take care of Roach and his other things.”

“He’s not dead! Stop fucking talking about him like he’s dead!”

“What if he made it back to camp, huh?! Maybe we’re out here worrying over him when he’s back there waiting for us, in need of our help. You’re being stupid!”

“You’re being heartless!”

“I’m being realistic, what the hell is it about that that is so hard for you to understand?! This isn’t a song, it isn’t some daydream where everything goes exactly how you want it to, so bring your head back down from the clouds long enough to see what’s happening right in front of you. Geralt’s gone! Maybe forever, maybe not, but he’s _gone_. All we have right now is each other and damn it, Jaskier, I’m not leaving you alone in the woods to die. We both know that’s not what he would want!”

“But-”

“I’ll fucking drag you back if I have to, don’t doubt me.”

“Fine.” Jaskier sighs heavily, handing Geralt’s sword to her and leading the way into the trees. He doesn’t bother to push the thorns aside, simply walks right through them and welcomes the distracting pain that comes in the form of their cuts. Anything is better than the emptiness in his chest, than the hurt eating away at him from the inside out, threatening to consume him whole by the time they make it back to camp and he’s forced to accept that Geralt isn’t th-

Jaskier trips.

He trips over a root and falls face-first into the thick of the thorns he’d been unnecessarily walking through, like the glutton for punishment he is. He yelps like he’s been fatally wounded, wicked branches whipping at his palms as he flings them out in front of himself to block his fall. Yennefer isn’t far behind him, but she’s taking the time to cut the thorns down before following.

He sits up, surveys his bleeding palms and then turns to glare at the offending branch guilt of tripping him.

Only… it isn’t a branch. It’s a leg. A leg that is, blessedly, attached to a body.

“Yennefer! Yennefer, come quick, I’ve found him! He’s in the thorns!” Jaskier shouts until his voice is hoarse, stumbling closer and burying his bleeding hand into the crook of Geralt’s neck. It’s hard to feel for a witcher’s pulse, given how much slower it is than the average human’s to begin with, but he’s pretty sure he feels something in there somewhere. At the very least, Geralt’s body isn’t cold to the touch.

He’s… looked better, obviously. For him to just throw himself into the thorns and accept that as the best hiding place he could find, unprotected on the ground for any creature brave enough to brave the odd scratch or cut… he had to have been hurt badly. Bad enough that he knew he wouldn’t get far at all and would simply have to make do with whatever was nearby.

Jaskier looks him over frantically, as Yennefer stumbles gracelessly through the thorns to join them. It’s immediately apparent that Geralt is littered with wounds, one resembling the claws of a griffin across his stomach, the rest shallow and clumsy slices like something was swiping at him rapidly and landing whatever hits it could. The few deep gashes from what was presumably a griffin are the worst by far, already puffed and greening with infection. Jaskier gags at the smell of them, bringing his undershirt up to cover his nose. It doesn't smell _normal_ , it smells far worse, like the worst ghoul they've ever encountered and then something more than that. 

Yennefer lands next to him and Jaskier turns to her.

“You have to do something! Use your magic! Help him!”

“He’s barely alive. I don’t know how much I can do for him now.” Yennefer says, as she places her hands on Geralt’s chest beneath his shirt, eyes closing in concentration as she begins to perform her magic. She pauses a moment later though, frustration flickering across her face. It doesn’t help that Jaskier is leaning into her space, desperate to be involved. “The venom has spread throughout his entire body, Jaskier. Magic is magic, not miracle. There are limits to what I can do.”

“Please.” Jaskier begs breathlessly, burying his face into her shoulder and giving a choked sort-of noise that brackets through his entire chest. He feels as if he could collapse, the relief and the worry both so strong where they’re warring inside of him. He’s found Geralt, and Geralt’s alive… but for how long?

“I’ll do my best.” Yennefer promises, turning back to her work.

While Jaskier sits aside and watches the exchange, he wonders if this is how Geralt felt all those years ago, waiting for Jaskier to wake after the djinn attack when they’d first met Yennefer. Jaskier couldn’t even imagine trusting a stranger to do this. Whether he hates her or not, he’s glad that Yen is here with him, is the one performing the magic that Geralt’s life depends on. He wouldn’t trust anyone else with it.

Time seems to pass so much slower when Geralt is clinging to his life by a thread. Jaskier is painstakingly aware of every second that ticks by, of every shallow breath that Geralt breathes, every pained noise that resonates in his chest while he’s unconscious. Days pass and it feels like _years_.

He doesn’t leave Geralt’s bedside. Why would he? How could he? The last time Geralt had been out of his sight, this had happened. There was no telling when or how it would happen again, but surely it would, and Jaskier would never forgive himself if history repeated itself with a far less favorable outcome. Besides, there was a chance yet that Geralt might not make it, though he’d been stable for a little over a day now, there was no telling what tomorrow would bring.

And so he waits, faithfully, at Geralt’s side. Like a dog would.

“You should sleep.” Yennefer tells him, not for the first time. It’s the third night since they’d brought Geralt back to camp and Jaskier hasn’t slept a wink in that timeframe, he thinks he’s starting to go a bit loony as the moon rises and he doesn’t so much as feel sleep’s pull. He’s not tired. He feels buzzed, like he’s high on every drug the world has to offer him, adrenaline coursing through him twenty-four hours a day. Sleep is simply out of the question when his entire being is so dedicated to Geralt.

“Can’t.”

“Eat something at least.” Yen suggests then, holding out a hunk of meat on a stick. She’s been hunting and trapping things since a few days after Geralt originally left camp, when they’d run out of their rations and it was up to them to improvise. Jaskier knew a thing or two about local herbs and berries, so he’d gathered everything edible he could find while Yen went out in search of meat to accompany it. What kind of meat it was, Jaskier had no clue. He thought maybe rabbit, or perhaps venison, but he’d never tasted anything quite like it before. Maybe magically enhanced.

Still, he hadn’t been able to bring himself to eat a bite of anything since seeing Geralt in his beaten and bruised state, his wounds oozing and infected. It put him off food altogether and he’d sworn not to take another bite until Geralt himself was eating. He wouldn’t be able to stomach it otherwise.

“Not hungry.”

“It’s been three days, Jaskier, keep this up and you’ll be the next one in need of healing.” Yennefer tells him snidely, pinging him on the ear as she reluctantly retracts her meat-on-a-stick and bites into it herself. Without Jaskier’s additions of greenery, her meals have been reduced to… more primal types of dishes. And it’s stupid, he knows that she must know a thing or two about herbs being a sorceress and all, likely far more than he does. But she’s clearly holding out just to see how long it’ll go before he feels bad enough to leave Geralt’s side and gather something for her, a reverse-psychology trick of sorts.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, you’re emaciated and gripping onto consciousness by a thread. I have ways of making you sleep, you know, it’s not a complicated spell. Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

Her words are light, almost playful, the threat behind them clearly lighthearted in nature. Yet the panic they bring is very real and brutal, slamming around in Jaskier’s chest before eventually lodging itself in his throat, making it hard to breathe, let alone speak. One good reason, one good reason, one good...

“It’s my fault.” Jaskier blurts out, wringing his hands together in his lap. It feels like a weight off his shoulders somehow, despite the wall of guilt that hits him afterward. The breaths he draws start to grow shaky and shallow, rapid in nature as he threatens to hyperventilate. Oh gods, it’s all his fault, it’s all-

“What I would give to understand how your simple mind works.” Yennefer muses, plopping down next to him on his bedroll, laid out next to Geralt’s. She reaches out, smoothing her hand across Geralt’s feverish forehead, brushing his hair back and sighing softly. Strangely, Jaskier doesn’t feel jealous or protective in the slightest, he’s almost glad to watch the intimate exchanges. 

“It’s my fault.” Jaskier repeats, with more insistence this time. She quirks an eyebrow.

“What part of this could possibly be misconstrued as your fault? It had nothing to do with you.”

“Yes, but I should have gone looking for him sooner, before the poison had so much time to spread. We could have avoided all of this. Who knows how long he was sitting there waiting for us to find him, all alone in the dark, bleeding out, venom burning through his veins. Think about it, Yen, the pain must have been _unimaginable_. We’re all he has, he was counting on us, and we let him down.”

“How could we have known? He told us not to follow.” Yennefer scoffs, shaking her head at him.

“I don’t care! I’m not leaving his side until I know he’s going to wake up!” His voice wavers slightly with the force of his emotions, lying heavy and dark under the words. He turns to her, searching her face for any sign that she might betray his wishes. He doesn’t find any, her expression unreadable, but he begs anyway because this matters to him more than anything else ever has. “Please. Don’t take this from me. I need to be there for him now, where I wasn’t then.”

For a long moment, it looks like she’s going to deny him his wish, her lips bitten red and raw by the time she emerges from her thoughts to look at Jaskier again. She searches his face, eventually reaching a hand up to trace the tired circles beneath his eyes, touch as featherlight as a snowflake landing on skin.

“Sometimes, I think you love him more than I ever could.” Yennefer says, soft and even, honest in a way she doesn’t often allow herself to be. The punched-out whimper that tumbles past Jaskier’s lips shocks even him, as he grabs her hand and buries his face into it. “Tell me, how did you ever learn to love like this? With your whole entire being? To throw yourself into it so wholly, head over heels, uncaring of how you land? Gods, Jaskier, your love is going to kill you one day.”

Jaskier doesn’t know how to answer her. He doesn’t know how to do much of anything, aside from lean into her chest and collapse there. His shoulders shake as he finally, finally allows himself to cry, uncaring of what she thinks of him. He cries like a newborn, stilted and gasping for breath, until there are broken sobs but no tears to accompany them, and his head pounds with an ache unlike any other. 

And strangely, she doesn’t push him away, but rather pulls him in closer and wraps her arms around him.

\--

Two more agonizing days without sleep and without food, Jaskier is all but in a daze where he lays with his head against Geralt’s arm. It’s his good arm, the one that doesn’t have an ugly gash dug down into the flesh near the elbow, so Jaskier doesn’t feel quite so bad about the added weight he’s giving. He’s _so_ tired. He’s not sleeping, just resting his eyes, resting his mind a little bit.

But it’s not sleep, he won’t let it get so far as to become sleep, it’s just… rest. 

He knows he’s not asleep because the very moment Geralt’s breathing stutters and becomes a gasp, Jaskier jolts upright next to him. He springs up, eyes wide as saucers despite the fact they haven’t even focused yet, and he blinks the not-sleep from his eyes rapidly. Sure enough, Geralt’s eyelids are slowly fluttering, his lips twitching down into a scowl.

“ _Hm_ .” Geralt rasps, eyes finally blinking open. They’re hazy and disoriented, deep pools of amber that survey the entirety of his surroundings before finally landing on Jaskier beside him. Geralt grunts, eyes narrowing, eyebrows drawing tightly together in confusion. “ _Jas_?”

“Geralt.” Jaskier sighs warmly, entire body feeling limp as he collapses forward and drapes himself over Geralt’s chest in a hug. If he were a stronger man, he’d pry himself off and give Geralt some space at the first uncomfortable shift below him. Geralt is still wounded after all, and though Jaskier doesn’t weigh much, it can’t be a good feeling to have his bony self crushing you. 

But Jaskier is weak, so weak, so very weak… and all he wants is to _feel_ Geralt, feel the warmth of his skin, feel the blood pumping in his veins. Feel the _life_ in him.

“Fucking hell. You smell like shit. Get off me.” Geralt bites out, reaching up to attempt to manhandle Jaskier off him. But he’s weak, weakened by the days of healing and the injuries alike, and all he really manages to do is roll them both so they’re lying side-by-side and staring into each other’s eyes. Their incredibly bright, aware, and _lively_ eyes. Oh, thank the gods, Geralt is _alive_.

“I was-” Jaskier tries and fails to hold it together, his voice breaking on a choked little sob that he just can’t hope to swallow down. He reaches up, swipes the unshed tears from his eyes before they have a chance to fall. He’s only cried in front of Geralt a handful of times, all of which out of bodily pain and physical suffering, this feels admittedly… much different. “I was _so_ worried!”

“Wh-”

“Don’t you ever, ever do that again! I know it’s your job and it’s a risk you take every time, but fuck, Geralt, you have to _promise_ me. Never make me go through that again.” Jaskier continues, gripping Geralt’s shirt tight in his fist, like he’s capable of intimidating him into agreeing in any way at all. Geralt looks completely lost, face screwed up in confusion, concern shining through as Jaskier continues to try and fail to get his waterworks under control.

“For fuck’s sake, stop speaking in riddles. Go through what? What _happened_?”

“You nearly died. Near bled-out from griffin talons slashing into your guts, then you went and fought an arachna and got a good dose of venom in your open wounds. Spread through you like wildfire after that.” Yennefer informs him from where she’s suddenly standing above their heads, peering curiously down at their exchange around her armful of firewood. Jaskier would normally feel the slightest bit ashamed of the way he’s clinging to her lover right in front of her, but as it is he doesn’t even flinch, just grips Geralt’s shirt tighter and buries his face right into it. Geralt smells like the dickens, like a hundred healing salves and sweat and blood and venom and sickness all mixed together, it’s disgusting and Jaskier can’t get enough of it. He’s _alive_. 

“Ah, right. I vaguely remember crawling around in the forest half-delirious with pain.”

“Mhm. Eventually, Jaskier convinced me to go looking for you, or rather decided to go himself and I had no choice but to accompany him. I’m glad he did though, by the time we found you it was nearly too late, even with magic on our side. If it weren’t for him, you’d be dead right now, so try to entertain his useless blubbering as best you can. He’s… emotional.” 

“This goes a bit beyond emotional, don’t you think? He’s clinging to me like a child.”

“The idiot hasn’t left your side for five days, only to relieve himself. He hasn’t slept, eaten, and in the last day he’s gone almost completely mute. Truth be told, I thought his body was shutting down and trying to conserve the last of his energy before he died, right there on top of you.” Jaskier has the sense to feel at least a little bit bashful about the way Yennefer is blatantly tattling on him, not holding a single detail back from Geralt. He’d hoped she might be a bit more… discreet about all of this. They had bonded over this, he’d thought. And it’s not been his proudest moment, after all.

Still, the embarrassment of it all isn’t enough to have him leaving his comfortable spot plastered to Geralt’s side, and he’s not sure anything would be. This is simply where he wants to reside now, for the rest of his days, for the afterlife as well. Geralt of Rivia has lovely arms, practically made to cuddle into.

“Damn it, Jaskier.” Geralt grumbles out, reaching up to grab a handful of Jaskier’s hair and attempt to pull him back the manual way. Jaskier whines weakly, tries and fails to fight it, but eventually gives in when he sees Geralt is serious about it. He doesn't want him to strain himself by using all his energy too soon after waking up. In a matter of seconds, Jaskier has been pulled back far enough that they’re making eye contact again. “You knew this was a possibility every time I went on a hunt, you should have better prepared yourself for it.”

“ _Prepared myself_ ?!” Jaskier absolutely shrieks, his voice going up an octave or two with the pure outrage that courses through his body head to toe. He props himself up on an elbow, jabs a finger harshly into the center of Geralt’s chest. “Geralt, pray tell, how would you _prepare yourself_ for my death?”

“Hm. It would take some time to plan the festivities, but the celebration would be unrivaled.”

Geralt’s smirk is so, so unfairly attractive up this close. 

“Oh, fuck you!” Jaskier hisses, the moment he’s pulled his gaze away from Geralt long enough to actually register his words. It’s a delayed reaction, but Jaskier does feel slightly miffed at the implication that Geralt would celebrate his death, especially when it hits so close to home right now. 

He punches Geralt’s arm as he pushes to his feet, turning his back on Geralt for the first time in days and heading over to the fire. He grabs a hunk of burnt meat from Yennefer’s meal a few hours prior, starts angrily chewing at it. Stupid witchers. Don’t know an emotion when it hits them in the face. Fuck.

“You shouldn’t tease him. He was really distraught. I’d never seen him like that before.” He hears Yennefer say somewhere behind him, but it’s muffled. He knows they’re probably embracing now, that Yen is having her turn celebrating Geralt’s return to the world of the living. The thought doesn’t bother him as much as it used to, though he can’t deny there’s still an underlying jealousy there that Geralt greets her so warmly and him so coldly.

Despite his best interest, he turns to look over at the two of them. The anger softens from his expression as he watches them kiss each other, slow and languid, like they have all the time in the world. They’re both smiling into it, eyes closed and hands smoothing over each other’s skin in an almost reverent fashion. It’s sort-of the most romantic thing he’s ever witnessed, Jaskier thinks he could write a song about it and it wouldn't even bother him to do so. If anything, he'd be a tad honored to be the one to immortalize what they have. You know, beyond the fact they are both immortal, more or less.

Eventually, not wanting to be mistaken for a common voyeur when they separate, Jaskier turns back to his food and continues to eat like the starved man he is. He wouldn’t be surprised if they shed their clothes and start to fuck right then and there, given their previous track record of reunions. Ah, to be young and in love. Or, err, rather, old and chaotically horny.

Perhaps he’ll go for a walk, stretch his legs so he doesn’t pass out right where he sits. Geralt has never been supportive of midday naps, and though this is a very unique circumstance, he doubts there will be any exceptions made to the rules. Not that Jaskier really wants to sleep when Geralt is here again and vying for his attention instead, if it weren’t for the necessity of it he’d simply never sleep again. It would be the far preferable option.

“Jaskier.” At the sound of his name, quiet and raspy, Geralt’s voice still riddled with sleep… Jaskier _might_ fall off the log he’s sitting on. He whips his head around, watching as Geralt settles down on the log right next to where he’d been sitting. Slowly, Jaskier slides back into his seat, looking around and eventually spotting Yennefer over with Roach. That’s… odd. He hadn’t expected them to separate for hours.

Nevermind that Yennefer is brushing Roach’s mane, which is entirely unnecessary given that she’d just done it yesterday, had taken extra care to untangle every last knot. Hell, if he didn’t know any better, he would assume that Yennefer is trying to give the two of them some time alone. Haha. Ha… _Oh_.

Geralt is looking at him intensely. Which, in all honesty, isn’t unusual in itself. After all, Geralt tends to do everything intensely by nature. There’s just something unfamiliar about his gaze, imploring and open, that is definitely a new territory for them. Begrudgingly, Jaskier wonders what Yennefer said to him. 

“I promise.” Geralt says suddenly, reaching out to grab Jaskier’s hand. It’s so sudden that Jaskier nearly snatches his hand right back away from his grip, startled by the sheer emotion behind the touch. But, he catches himself just in time, and instead flips his hand over to weave their fingers together. Geralt gives a grunt of acknowledgement, before sliding closer to him on the log. “Aside from relinquishing my duties as a witcher, I promise I’ll do everything within my power to avoid dying a gruesome early death. Does that make you feel better?”

“Not exactly.” Jaskier admits, idly playing with Geralt’s fingers. They’re huge, so much larger than his, practically dwarfing his entire hand. He can’t help but be amused by it. It’s a welcome distraction from the darkness still permeating his thoughts. “How is that any different from before? It’s not like you set out to die then, I’m sure you’ve been doing everything in your power to stay alive this entire time.”

“Hm.” Geralt sounds frustrated. “I promise not to die before I make it back to you next time?”

“Fuck off, there’d _better_ not _be_ a next time. You think I want you to crawl back to me and die in my arms? Bugger off."

“Damn it, Jas, is there anything I can say that _would_ satisfy you?”

“Not unless you’ve rethought my offer of heading to the coast, living a simple life by the beach?” Jaskier tries, offering his most charming smile.

“Not gonna happen.” Geralt says without a shred of hesitation, but there’s blatant amusement there this time in his dismissal. He chuckles under his breath and doesn’t bother to hide his answering grin, bright and bold and _blinding_ as he turns it on Jaskier. “You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“It was worth a try.” Jaskier sighs forlornly, honing in to his special dramatic flair to make a performance out of it. “It seems I’ll just have to cling to your side tighter still and give you no chance to be killed. You, my friend, have acquired yourself one shield made of human flesh. I’m accompanying you on all of your hunts from now o-”

“Like fuck you are.” 

“Oh ho ho, if it’s a battle of wills you wish to have, then have a battle of wills we shall. We’ll see who gives in by the time the next beastie rolls around. I’ve been told I’m very persuasive when I want to be, a combination of stubbornness and my innate ability to simply never stop speaking, I-”

“I already miss being in a venom-induced coma. Death would have been kinder to me than this.”

“Hey! You arse! That’s no way to talk to someone who has spent the last week caring for your pasty, green, rotting corpse of a body! Magic or no magic, those wounds needed cleaning and I don’t think I will ever get the smell out from beneath the beds of my fingernails, you giant pus-filled bag of-”

“I’m sorry for worrying you, Jaskier.” Geralt cuts him off, firmly, his voice suddenly very serious. Jaskier’s mouth is still hanging open, but he reluctantly closes his jaw, matching Geralt in mood. He nods slowly, smoothing his fingers along Geralt’s bruised knuckles. He’s not sure that Geralt has ever apologized to him so honestly, not even after the events of the mountain.

Then, Geralt smiles at him again, and Jaskier feels greedy with it. Two genuine smiles from Geralt in the run of just one day? By gods, that’s simply unheard of, he should truly count his blessings.

Geralt takes his hand, brings it up to his own face. Jaskier doesn’t even dare to breathe, as his fingers trace the smooth slope of Geralt’s cheekbone. Geralt closes his eyes, leans into it. “But I’m fine, you see? All my parts and pieces are here, I’ll live to see another day thanks to the two of you, and now it’s time to move on. This forest has nothing to offer us but bad memories, so how about you help me pack our things and we’ll be on our way. Perhaps I’ll even let you ride Roach alongside me and Yennefer can walk, seeing as you look like you’re seconds away from passing out on your feet. Alright?”

“A-Alright.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love a good bonding over near-death experiences chapter in MY getting together fics, how about you??? huh???
> 
> Update on me playing through witcher 3: i am addicted to gwent. i didn't sleep a WINK last night because i was scouring the map for people to play gwent against, i want to collect all the cards... im going feral please help me
> 
> Thanks so much for all the sweet comments you guys are leaving!! I just love to see people getting invested and discussing the characters and the dialogue UGH it's so good. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Cya next time!
> 
> My social medias:
> 
> @melancholymango is my main acc on twitter/tumblr  
> @redgaysonly is my nsfw/fandom acc on twitter


	4. Know that my love would burn with me, we'll live eternally

In truth, as much as Jaskier had been hesitant to admit it in the beginning, there are countless advantages to traveling in a trio rather than a duo. And more specifically, traveling with Yennefer. Yen’s magic is good for emergency healing, she knows how to sew (albeit with an enchanted needle) when Geralt and Jaskier ruin their clothes on the road, and she gives far more input than Geralt when it comes to composing songs… some of which, is actually good, good enough that Jaskier writes her lines into his songs from time to time despite the sense of smugness it gives her.

But above all else, all of the assets she has and the knowledge she offers, there is one thing in particular.

Her powers of _persuasion_.

Now that they’re not-enemies and not-friends, somewhere comfortably in the middle, there are times when Yennefer and Jaskier… _team up_. When their interests and goals align just right and they know they can work together to bring them to light. Sometimes, this means making Geralt stop at the nicer inn, that doesn’t have goats roaming through the rooms. Sometimes, this means convincing Geralt to take his clothes off and bathe in the river with them, which gives them both plenty of ogling material. 

And sometimes, such as tonight, it means convincing Geralt to accompany the both of them to a formal ball where he’d normally never be caught dead. 

Jaskier himself has always prided himself in his ability to gently poke and prod Geralt out of his comfort zone, usually by means of begging to the point of annoyance, but sometimes by playing the dirty card of being the damsel in distress that Geralt feels hardwired to come to the rescue of. But Yennefer, she’s much bolder in her strategies, promising _rewards_ if Geralt goes along with her plans. 

Jaskier can’t even fault her, if sex were on the table between him and Geralt, he’d certainly use it as a bargaining chip. The man thinks with his cock more often than not.

And so, really, it doesn’t come as a surprise when Geralt comes into his room two weeks before the ball, with hickeys littering his pale neck and his hair a sweaty mess atop his head, reeking of sex even to the insensitive human nose… and asks Jaskier if he can make him an appointment with a tailor, because he _needs an outfit for the ball_.

It’s the greatest gift Yennefer has ever given him. He’s only ever dressed Geralt once in his life, but in that instance they’d hardly known each other, and Jaskier hadn’t had the time to get anything custom tailored to actually suit the shape of Geralt’s body, or to suit his black-on-black agenda when it came to color schemes. So, naturally, Geralt had hated the hand-me-down bard clothes with such a passion he’d vowed never to go to another event with Jaskier again, and so Jaskier’s life had been sadly barren of opportunities to dress up Geralt’s magnificent bod ever since… until now.

Gods, Jaskier could _kiss_ Yennefer when he strolls down the stairs the next morning, whistling a happy tune with his hands jingling coin in his pockets. He’s headed straight to the local tailor, an eccentric man that Jaskier has conveniently crossed paths with before. He’s not the best of the best, not by a long stretch, but he’s good at what he does and he’ll certainly be able to whip something up in time for the ball even on such short notice. Plus, it means they’ll be staying in town for a while as they wait for the outfit to finish, and Jaskier quite likes the cozy inn they’re settled into currently.

He doesn’t express his thanks in words, he can’t imagine how he’d even begin to approach the topic of gratitude with Yennefer of all people, but he does slip her his share of the bacon off his plate that morning. She quirks an eyebrow at him, visibly perplexed, but doesn't even hesitate before she starts scarfing down the extra food. Geralt watches the exchange over the rim of his glass, but he doesn’t comment on it, perhaps afraid of the answer he might get if he asks questions.

See, Geralt is the slightest bit… perplexed, by the fact that Jaskier and Yennefer are no longer at each other’s throats. To him, it seems like a very jarring and sudden shift, and he can't think of a single reason for it. He asked Jaskier once, awkward and uncertain, if they’d slept together at some point. Jaskier had laughed so hard he’d nearly choked up a lung and assured him that, no, they had not bumped uglies without Geralt’s knowledge and they never would. Geralt had been... less than enthused with his phrasing, and he didn't seem relieved as much as further annoyed that he was once again left without an explanation.

Which, _rude_ , that Geralt would think so lowly of him and just approach it with begrudging acceptance. Jaskier may have been a manwhore in his prime, yes, but he would never dream of sleeping with Geralt’s lover without _at least_ informing him of his intentions first. He’s a loyal friend first, a lover second. 

Besides, Yennefer is _hardly_ his type.

Yes, she's a beautiful woman. Yes, she's a woman that can and will beat him up, keep him in line when he needs to be. Yes, she's witty, charming, flirty, overtly sexual in nature.

Okay, maybe she is his type, but she's not... it just wouldn't work. The base attraction can be there, that doesn't mean they have a shred of compatibility, sexually or otherwise.

But it had brought the question to the forefront of Jaskier’s mind, the matter of _why_ things had changed so much between them that they hardly ever bickered anymore, that even Yennefer’s insults directed his way sounded more fond than cruel. He eventually equated it to the bond they’d formed through shared trauma of almost losing the man they love, though he couldn’t exactly tell Geralt as much.

And so, Geralt was left in the dark, where he’ll remain for the foreseeable future, questioning what the hell is going on to make his two companions tolerate each other so well.

\--

The outfit is everything Jaskier had hoped it would be and more.

The first time he has Geralt try it on, they’re alone together in Jaskier’s room at the inn, because he’s insistent that Geralt keeps it a secret from Yen until the big reveal. He’s not really sure why, he just wants her to be surprised by it, wants to see her face swell up with pride and warmth when she lays eyes on Geralt dressed to the nines. He spends an unreal amount of time thinking about her reaction, imagining how satisfying it will be to impress her with his creative vision.

It _is_ creative, he must say. A deep black with an abstract lighter patterning dyed into it, almost reflective when the light hits it just the right way, like the scales of a snake. The lapels of the jacket are lined with intricate silver in-lays, accentuating Geralt’s curves (Geralt grumbles under his breath when Jaskier uses the word “curves”, but really, how else can he describe the shapely way his chest and hips dip outward like an hourglass?). The pants are tight-fitted, leaving little to the imagination, and Geralt has the gall to complain to the tailor that he must have sized him wrong and it needs alterations, before Jaskier explains that that’s how it’s meant to be and if Geralt so much as lays a finger on that suit to alter it, he’ll lose said finger. 

It’s perfect. 

It just needs… a more personal touch. Jaskier spares Geralt the full entourage of accessories when he’s trying it on for the first time, doesn’t want to scare him off before the night finally arrives when he’ll be wearing it in public. He knows how to pick his battles, thank-you.

\--

It isn’t until the big night, when Yennefer is impatiently banging on the door to Jaskier’s room and ordering them to hurry up or they’ll be late, that Jaskier reveals the final touches. Geralt is settled on a stool in the middle of the room, expression utterly bored as Jaskier flutters around and hums happily under his breath. He's completely in his element like this and the fact that Geralt's somehow entertaining it all makes it so much more rewarding. He really might kiss Yennefer, to show his thanks.

He starts by braiding Geralt’s hair fervently, with techniques he’d paid a local whore to teach him (she’d been happy to do something other than fucking with her time and be paid for it, had taught him more than he’d ever hoped to learn). It's quite different than the childish clumsy braids he'd picked up on during childhood, it's detailed and confusing, takes a lot more trial and error to make it settle right. But Jaskier is stubbornly determined and Geralt is uncharacteristically patient, so in the end it works out.

Yennefer continues to shout in the background, but Jaskier can hardly hear her, he’s on another plain entirely as his deft fingers slide through the silky freshly-washed strands of white hair. He's not sure, but he thinks he hears Geralt make a pleased rumble in his chest, when Jaskier drags his blunt nails across the man's scalp accidentally. _Huh_.

“You look so good.” Jaskier mumbles, mostly for his own sake, still riding high on the knowledge that he’s behind this entire ensemble. Nevermind that _Geralt of Rivia_ is the one wearing it, the most unfairly perfect model that anyone could ever ask for. He’s died and gone to heaven, he’s sure of it.

“So you’ve said.” 

“I know, but let me admire. I think I was meant to be a tailor, don’t you agree? Perhaps it’s not too late to change professions?” Jaskier muses aloud, reaching down to adjust the collar of the jacket, stepping gracefully around Geralt. All the while, yellow eyes burn holes into his face, glued to him with an air of annoyance that's far too familiar to be intimidating anymore. Geralt looks for all intents and purposes like he’d rather be having the shit beat out of him than be sitting here to be pampered, but Jaskier knows it's all a matter of pride. Geralt doesn't really hate it, he just hates how much he _doesn't_ hate it.

Stinky, rugged witchers don't get pampered, it's not something within their realm of expertise. And a Geralt out of his element, is a grumpy Geralt.

Geralt shifts, reaching up to undo the top few buttons of his shirt. Jaskier shoots him a glare that goes unnoticed. It wasn’t part of his vision for Geralt’s cleavage to be bared to the entire world, but he supposes that’s something he should have accounted for, Geralt’s hardly one for stuffy clothes. He likes movable, breathable, practical clothing.

“I think I’d like it better if it was less… attention-seeking.”

“If you really must, you can take the jacket off once you get there. The shirt underneath is a plain one, black and buttoned, only slightly more formal than what you normally wear. But at least wear the entire outfit for when Yennefer sees you, yes?” Jaskier prompts, carefully threading the needle of a familiar pin into Geralt’s lapel. It’s a beautiful piece of jewelry, silver with sapphires littered throughout, in the shape of a flower. It’s something Geralt had been rewarded on their travels years ago and had immediately given to Jaskier, claiming that he had no use for it, that he only ever cared for coin as payment.

Jaskier likes to think that it was something more personal than that. Geralt could've easily pawned it off to the nearest merchant in exchange for coin, and that's what he usually does with any trinkets he picks up on his travels. And instead, he'd awkwardly and gruffly shoved it into Jaskier's palm that night when they settled around the fire, spooning tepid stew into their mouths like men starved. Jaskier hadn't known what to do with it at first, especially because Geralt offered little (nothing) in terms of explanation. Jaskier had to practically pry it out of him, and even then he only said "I don't need it, you can have it". 

It couldn't be just coincidence that the first time Geralt had ever given Jaskier a gift, it happened just days after they reunited from their months apart post-dragon hunt. After all, it was just like Geralt to attempt to say sorry in the form of material gifts, rather than words. He struggled far more with words.

There's no way to be entirely sure what he was thinking, given that he never took it upon himself to explain, but it doesn't really matter. The point is, Jaskier has treasured the gift ever since just the same. He wears it proudly every single day and there's no way Geralt hasn't noticed that. Maybe, to strangers and to the general public, it's just a piece of jewelry. But between the two of them, it's something much more. That's why it only feels fitting as Jaskier pins it to Geralt's jacket tonight.

It feels like staking a claim, in a way plainer than having Geralt wearing an outfit designed by him and hair styled by him. It's... a statement. A bold one.

Nevermind that he's never once seen Geralt wear anything remotely close to jewelry, aside from his medallion. He doesn't seem the type, especially not for something as dainty and feminine as the little sapphire flower he's wearing now. And yet, he doesn't so much as open his mouth in complaint, just glances down and watches on in silence as Jaskier situates it just right. Like this, their faces inches apart, it's hard not to let his longing get the better of him.

It'd be so easy to just... kiss him. 

Jaskier finds himself zoning out as he considers it, considers the pink curve of those lips, inviting even where they're chapped and bitten. It's a risk, it's always been a risk, but it feels like a risk worth taking during moments like these. Moments when Geralt is clean-shaven and smells of Jaskier's favorite fragrant soaps, when he's already downed a bottle of mead that'd intoxicate a normal man to the point of slurring and is simply left with a light flush to his cheeks, when he's watching Jaskier with that intrigued and amused tilt to his smile like the bard is more captivating than anything else he's seen in his extraordinarily long lifetime. Gods, it's unfair, for Geralt to look at him like that and expect nothing to come of it.

Doesn't he know? How can he not? 

Jaskier reels himself back in at the very edge of the precipice, moments before he does something stupid like change the nature of their entire relationship for good. He drops his hand from Geralt's chest, rises to his feet and gestures to the whole of him like he's a piece of art, officially finished. Jaskier beams a smile at him, hopes it hides the way he's crumpling inside, second-guessing himself a hundred times over. To kiss him or not to kiss him, to kiss him or not to kiss him, to kiss him or not to kiss him. It feels like an age-old question, like something the _gods_ have pondered. Is there even a right answer? 

"What do you think?" Jaskier finds himself asking, invested in the answer no matter how he pretends otherwise.

Geralt huffs, gives Jaskier a long bitter look before taking the hand outstretched in his direction. He lumbers onto his feet, reaches to readjust his jacket on his frame, and Jaskier's breath catches in his throat as he watches expensive fabric mold around expensive scars, outlining muscles a lifetime in the making. If Geralt were to flex particularly hard, he'd probably rip the sleeves clean off. And that's not an insult to the tailor as much as a compliment to Geralt's sheer strength.

It's the first time Jaskier has seen him standing since he donned the outfit, much less the accessories, so this is his first glimpse at his vision in its entirety.

Oh, gods, he looks _dashing_ , like a prince from a fairy tale, or a charming crook sent to rob the royal family, or perhaps a wayward Siren with the pull of the ocean in his eyes, luring you in and threatening to drown you in those deep pools of yellow-

“If this weren't black, I'd look like a damn bard." Geralt comments, drawing Jaskier from his spiral. It's the first thing remotely close to a complaint he's uttered all evening, impossibly dry and lacking of emotion, more resignation than a genuine objection. He looks away from the mirror back to Jaskier, eyebrows raised. It's clear then that it's only goading, that he wants Jaskier to play into it and lighten the mood. Geralt isn't good at genuine, so even if he's completely impressed with the outfit, it's unlikely he'll say as much to Jaskier's face. No, it's true, Geralt would likely react like this whether he loved or hated the outfit. 

Jaskier tries not to take it personal, instead sticks his tongue past his lips and sneers at Geralt.

"Better a bard than a sad silk trader, am I right?" 

"Debatable." Geralt muses, lips twitching just barely enough to be perceptible. Ah, so Geralt's in the mood for teasing then, is he? At Jaskier's expense? What an ass.

"A sip of alcohol into you and you get damned mouthy, Geralt, has anyone ever told you that?" Jaskier huffs, rolling his eyes. He pushes Geralt out of the way, steps in front of the mirror himself and dips his hand into the tub of hair product. He scowls slightly at his receding hairline, and then quickly fluffs his hair to fall in such a way that it isn't obvious whatsoever. All the while, his mouth moves without his approval, rambling nervously as Geralt's eyes find and watch his in the reflection. "After all I'm doing for you, taking hours of my precious time that I should be preparing for the ball myself, this is the thanks I get? Well, see if I ever help you in your hour of need again. I should've let you wear that stained green gambeson you normally consider formal wear, see how Yennefer liked you then. You'd have been the laughing stock of the party, showing up with Yen and I on either side of you, dressed like monarchs, while you dress like a man that's been living in the woods for his entire adult life."

"It hasn't been my _entire_ adult life."

"Oh, is that so? Sorry, sometimes your communication skills are so bestial that I forget you weren't raised by _actual_ wolves."

"Remind me again how I'm the mouthy one, please." Geralt groans, tipping his head back to stare begrudgingly to the ceiling. Jaskier eyes him in the mirror, lets his gaze drink in the dip of his collarbones, the slither of chest hair visible between those unbuttoned buttons. Fuck. He takes it back, maybe Geralt is blind to fashion, but he certainly knows his own assets. Good on him, keep that cleavage on display, Jaskier stands utterly corrected.

As well as utterly distracted, so much so that he doesn't think to tear his gaze away until Geralt is suddenly looking back at him again. There's a long awkward span of seconds where Jaskier half expects to be called out for his blatant ogling, he's sure the hunger and the desire must be plain to see on his face, perhaps Geralt can even smell it on him. 

But Geralt doesn't say anything, just softens his expression into one that isn't bent up with irritation.

And Jaskier takes that as the good sign it surely is, and pushes blindly ahead with amounting anticipation.

"You like it, yeah? You don't have to gush about it or anything, just a simple yes or no will suffice." He asks, biting his lip to keep from saying anything more. He doesn't have to specify any more than that, he knows that Geralt knows what he's talking about. It's only made more obvious when Geralt glances down at himself again, eyebrows furrowed together in obvious tension, as he struggles to find the words to answer. Jaskier walks over to him, places a hand on his chest and idly toys with the pin shining proudly on his lapel. " _Please_? I want to hear you say it."

"It's... not the most unfortunate thing I could be forced to wear." Geralt ventures after much more hesitation, finally looking back up to meet Jaskier's gaze, expectant like he's looking for approval of his own approval. He's so... adorably confused, when it comes to matters like these. Jaskier wishes he could make it easier on him, go back and teach him that it's alright to feel, to be vulnerable. His witcher training may have frowned upon it, but that's hurt him more than the weakness of emotions ever could, in the long run.

Seriousness aside though, Jaskier finds his heart soaring with the praise. It's not much, by anyone else's standard it would probably classify as disapproval, but Jaskier can see right through the hesitation and the poor choice of words. Geralt is trying, and he wouldn't be if he didn't mean it. Still, it calls for a bit of teasing, especially when Geralt won't look him in the eye and is growing visibly more uncomfortable the longer Jaskier gapes at him, starry-eyed and smitten to his core.

"Gee, Geralt, what a way with words you have. I bet you'll make all the fair maidens at the ball _swoon_ , with compliments like that."

"Hm." Geralt offers, regaining confidence. "I'm not trying to impress all the fair maidens, just the one."

Jaskier waits on the jealousy.

He waits for it to boil up within him, green with envy, ugly and festering like an infection.

Only, this time, it never comes to him.

There's only a fondness there in place of it, warm and blooming throughout his chest, spreading impossibly wider the more he thinks about it. Hearing Geralt talk about Yennefer had always been a bittersweet affair before, but now there's only sweetness there. He's happy for Geralt, happy to see the way he's growing and coming into himself with Yen's help, and he's happy to see how happy he is. But even more surprising than that, is that he's happy for Yennefer too, happy that she's with someone who clearly values her so much, that she's opened up her heart and won't have it blow up in her face this time.

This is enough, want as he may, he doesn't _need_ anything more.

"If that's the case, then you needn't have worn anything at all. I'd wager that Yen likes the wolf in you more than the man." Jaskier comments, patting a heavy hand against Geralt's back as he moves past him, gathering his belt from the bed. Geralt hums behind him. "I'm totally telling her that you called her a fair maiden, by the way."

"You wouldn't."

"You underestimate me, Geralt." Jaskier counters, turning on his heel to grin wolfishly at the other man. Geralt narrows his eyes at him, takes a step closer, his boots heavy on the hardwood floor. Jaskier's heartbeat picks up, until it's hammering in his chest as he dances gracefully backward, just out of Geralt's reach. The back and forth, the give and take, the game of chase where Jaskier skirts the line of genuinely pissing Geralt off and playing with him. "How do you think she'll react when I tell her?"

"You won't tell her if you value your life, you big-mouthed bastard."

"Oh, you wanna bet on it then? I assure you, I'm going to tell her, I'm going to-"

"Would you two stop messing around and get out here?! You act as if I haven't been sitting outside this door for the better part of a fucking hour! I can very well hear you, there's no need to relay anything to me!" Yen's voice cuts through the room, sharp like a knife, and both Geralt and Jaskier can't help the way their faces light up in amusement. Jaskier tips his head forward with a low chuckle, resting his forehead against Geralt's shoulder as he trembles with laughter. "Seriously, Jaskier, you take longer to get ready than any woman I've ever met! Get the fuck out here before I take your idea and go to the party in the nude, making sure that _no one_ pays any attention to whatever flouncy outfit you've strapped poor Geralt into."

It’s not a hollow threat. Yennefer is _just_ petty enough to do it.

It lights a fire under Jaskier’s ass, gets him to stop flirting with Geralt and instead grab the man's sleeve, leading him clumsily to the door.

He busts out into the hallway and collides with Yennefer, hands landing on her hips to balance her, and then immediately pushing her away instead.They’re both quick to scramble backward and separate, matching unsettled expressions mirrored on their faces. Luckily, a distraction comes in the form of Geralt stepping out of the room, head bowed and hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers. He might even be blushing, though it would earn Jaskier a punch to the gut to suggest it.

Jaskier steps over to him, looping his arm through the other man’s and leaning into his side, preening the slightest bit as Yennefer’s eyes land on her lover. It’s strange, how the jealousy morphs into a competitive desire to please in moments like these. Still, her approval means something to him, possibly as much as it means to Geralt if he wants to be completely honest. He's not sure what that means, exactly. Only that he doesn't want to know.

“Well, what do you think?” Jaskier prompts, gesturing to the whole of Geralt with a flourish. Yen is quiet, which either means something terrible or something wonderful. Not entirely unlike the bard, she doesn’t often filter her natural reactions, and biting her tongue isn’t a skill she’s capable of.

She must be truly at a loss for words, for better or for worse.

Finally, a smile starts to curl at her lips and she stumbles forward. 

“Your bard has _really_ outdone himself this time, hasn’t he?” She says, and her voice is dripping with affection, more than she usually allows. Beside him, Geralt lights up in an instant, all of his insecurity fading away to a certain level of smugness. Bastard.

Geralt catches her in his arms easily, doesn’t even bother to disentangle himself from Jaskier first. And so, Jaskier stands there awkwardly with his hand crushed against her hip while Geralt kisses her, fast and desperate. He can feel the shared heat of their bodies against his hand and it’s a bittersweet kind of torture, has his fingers threatening to curl into the fabric of her dress. 

Untangling himself now would only make things awkward, surely. And it’s not like he really… minds it, at least not as much as he used to. He’s come to terms with Yennefer’s presence in Geralt’s life, in both of their lives really, and that presence involves routinely macking on the witcher. If Jaskier detaches himself from the moment a little bit, stifles his personal feelings, looks at it objectively and admires them for the two very attractive people they are… it’s kind of hot. 

Alright, really hot.

_Insanely_ hot.

Ah, fuck, Jaskier _really_ can’t afford to get hard in these silk trousers and risk staining them, they’re the most expensive thing in his entire wardrobe and he saves them for the most formal of occasions. Not to mention they’re tight, painstakingly tight, and it would leave very little to the imagination as well as be intensely uncomfortable. The last thing he needs is for Geralt to smell his arousal on him, or for Yennefer to see it and call him out in that cruel condescending tone.

“Alright, guys, I’d like to get there before it’s over, if it’s all the same to you.” Jaskier announces loudly, tugging his arm out from between their bodies.

They pull apart, suiting him with matching unimpressed glares, but he just glares back at them twice as hard. Eventually, Geralt sighs and shakes his head, before pulling away and taking Yen’s hand instead. And so, Jaskier leads them out into the cool night air, and then toward the Lord’s estate where the ball is to be thrown.

\--

The event is just as grand as it’d been advertised as. With countless performers, tables piled high with food and drink, and so many privileged rich folk that Jaskier has a hard time deciding which one he’s going to try to get into bed with by the end of the night. Some of them are people he recognizes from past trysts, but he hardly has to worry about scorned ex-lovers or relatives of said ex-lovers, not when he has both a witcher and a sorceress flocking him when he enters the room. 

Even after Yennefer wanders off to survey the alcohol and Geralt is dragged rather unwillingly into a conversation about a potential job prospect, Jaskier doesn’t feel the least bit nervous to be on his own again. Geralt and Yen certainly have a way of leaving a lasting impression… no one would dare touch him with their faces seared into memory. And even if they dared, they wouldn’t get far at all before one of his companions would surely step in.

So Jaskier lets himself have fun, lets himself drink enough to truly relax, lets himself flirt and charm to his heart’s desire, like he might have in his early twenties when he felt young and invincible to any and all consequences. He’s had a few scares since then, close calls that he’d prefer not recall at all, and he has a whole lot to lose now that he never had before… but tonight, he lets himself let his guard down.

He plays his lute with such vigor that his fingers start to burn even through the callouses that line his hands from years of use, he sings until his throat is raw and scratchy enough that it almost hurts to continue, and he dances until his thighs protest every step. And then, only then, does he allow himself to settle at a table in a merry tipsy sort-of haze and let someone else take his place on stage.

He has a few prospects for the night. There’s a busty redhead seated in the far right wing of the room, and though she hasn’t spoken to much of anyone all night and hasn’t made any effort to dance, she certainly blushed a pretty shade of pink when Jaskier winked at her mid-song. There’s also a guard standing by the door, with a tall slender frame and dark wiry hair, who hasn’t taken his eyes off of Jaskier all night long, his gaze practically burning with lust. And finally, finally, there’s the lovely Countess De Stael, his on-again off-again fling since he was a teenager; she doesn’t look particularly impressed with him after how they’d left things last time, but he’s sure she could be convinced. 

Jaskier takes a long sip of his drink, eyeing the redhead over the rim of the bottle. She is pretty, probably the easiest to charm, impossibly cute with how coy she’s playing it. And, truth be told, the other two options aren’t exactly options at all. The guard, on account of being a man, and thus reminding him too much of Geralt. And the Countess, on account of being a dark-haired cruel mistress, and reminding him too much of Yennefer. 

Damn it, his dating pool has been harshly limited in his old age, seeing as he had to go and complicate sex by learning what love was. It was always so much easier before, when it was purely physical, something he did for fun and for pleasure and not much else. Now, it’s hard to really want anyone, when you know it won’t be nearly as satisfying as having the one you really want. 

Then, like the masochist he surely is, Jaskier lets his gaze drift over to the corner of the room where he’d last seen Geralt. It’s not like he moves about much, he usually isn’t one for social interaction, so he mostly keeps to himself in a darkened corner or he trails along beside Yennefer. Once or twice tonight, Jaskier has even seen the two of them dancing, in a way that couldn’t be described as anything short of being hopelessly romantic. He’s happy for them. Really, genuinely, he is.

Now though, now Geralt is sat at one of the tables and chatting with a group of rowdy men. If their invested expressions are anything to go by, he must be telling stories of past monster conquests. It’s not something he often does, but Jaskier’s songs have a tendency to inspire curiosity in the locals, and the bravest of them will approach Geralt for more details. Sometimes, when he’s feeling his most relaxed or tipsy, Geralt will entertain them.

Jaskier can’t help it, his lips twitch with the urge to smile. 

“I must say, Jaskier, you certainly have an eye for fashion.” He nearly jumps out of his seat at the first brush of Yennefer’s soft lips across the shell of his ear, whispering in that implicative tone. As it is, he’s quick to wipe the stupid lovelorn gaze from his face, schooling his features into something more neutral as he turns to her.

Yennefer doesn’t wait to be invited, simply sits down next to him and flashes a cheeky smile his way, like she somehow knows where his thoughts had been just a few short seconds ago. He sighs long and hard, drinks down the rest of his drink, shrugs his shoulders. “Or at the very least, you have yourself an eye for Geralt’s best assets. He looks striking. There isn’t a man or woman here that hasn’t admired him at some point tonight. It’s almost enough to make a girl jealous.”

It’s hard to tell with Yen, whether her compliments are genuine or teasing. He thinks that’s the way she likes it, to leave people guessing and on their toes around her. Still, he decides to grin back at her, the alcohol in his bloodstream making him a lot looser with how he acts around her.

“He’d never dream of telling a soul, but I think Geralt enjoys all the positive attention once in a while.”

“You spoil him.” She accuses, but it’s light, playful. 

“Someone has to.”

“He does look quite pleased with himself, doesn’t he?” Yennefer muses in a quiet hum, her gaze visibly darkening as she casts it across the room to where Geralt is settled, at the head of the long table of lords and dukes. He does look strangely comfortable, perhaps even a bit smug. Maybe he’s showing off, telling one of his particularly hard to believe stories. Or maybe, Jaskier hopes, maybe it’s something more than that, and all the eyes on him tonight have grown his confidence. 

Perhaps he’ll let Jaskier dress him again after all, maybe next time Yennefer won’t even have to bribe him if he knows this is the results he can expect. 

“Yeah, I suppose he does.”

“It’s like he _knows_ he’s flooding panties and hardening cocks with every smile he throws.” 

At that, Jaskier chokes around a mouthful of ale and spits it across the table. He can’t even find it within himself to feel embarrassed about it or grossed out either, as he tips his head back and lets out a hearty laugh. It’s loud enough to turn heads of nearby partygoers, as well as draw Geralt’s gaze in their direction thanks to his heightened senses. His yellow eyes glint curiously and Jaskier manages to choke down his laughter long enough to offer him a dismissive wave.

Finally, Jaskier turns back to Yen, his face flushed and a smile stretched wide across his lips

“You’re a crass, crass woman.” He tells her, fondness creeping into his tone. “It amuses me.”

“Does it?” Yennefer questions lightly, resting her chin in her palm. Her gaze doesn’t break away from Jaskier’s, dark and probing, like she’s looking for something in his expression and failing to find it. He isn’t sure if he’s meant to stare back, but he finds himself unable to stop. She’s a far stretch from being hard on the eyes and it isn’t often his inhibitions are lowered enough to entertain his attraction to her. After all, there’s a world of reasons why he shouldn’t and he’s no longer twenty and sleeping with anyone, consequences be damned. He has so much to lose. 

Finally, she tears her gaze away from his, nodding toward where another bard is dancing around the center of the room. He’s sort-of good, though Jaskier notices the crowd isn’t nearly invested in his songs as they had been when Jaskier was dancing around the room singing to the crowds. “So, are you done performing for the night?”

“Merely taking a break, giving the other performers a chance to shine.” Jaskier insists, though the ache in his hands and throat argues otherwise. Nevermind that he’s gone through the better part of his song roster, including some retired ones he hasn’t performed in years. He still has more though, he’s sure he could think of something to sing if the audiences demanded it.

“Hm.” Yennefer hums, tapping her fingers against her lips. “They pale in comparison, quite cruel of you to go before all of them and leave the crowd with such high expectations for their entertainment.”

It takes Jaskier a long moment of looking for the insult in her words to realize there isn’t one, that instead she’s actually _praising_ him. More than that, she’s praising him for his singing, which is unheard of as far as compliments go within their trio. Of course he'd always known that Geralt didn't hate his singing as much as he let on he did, for if he truly did then he never would have allowed it at all. No, there were times, when Geralt was in a particularly amicable mood... when he'd even egg Jaskier on, prompt him to perform something to fill the silence of life on the path. He was never obvious about it, never came out and asked it outright, but it was clear enough.

Yennefer though, Jaskier had never been so bold as to assume she didn't mean all the insults she tossed his way about his singing. Sure, it didn’t stop him from continuing to do it, but it was enough to hurt his feelings a little bit.

“Was that a _compliment_?” Jaskier asks, because he needs to be sure he isn’t drunker than he thought he was and is somehow misinterpreting this. But Yennefer just gives him a look, just south of being a smirk, eyelashes fluttering teasingly. Fuck. Jaskier can’t help it, he leans into her space, holds her gaze and licks his lips, his heart pounding heavily in his chest. “The great Yennefer of Vengerberg complimented me? To what do I owe the pleasure? I hardly feel deserving of such prestigious praise.”

“Don’t get big-headed with it or I promise you it’ll never happen again.” Yen warns him, but she’s still smirking slightly, isn’t making any effort to put space between them again. Jaskier can’t help it, his gaze dips, admires the pretty red color of her lips and wonders if they’re naturally such a shade or if it’s the work of make-up, or perhaps magic. Maybe it’s Geralt’s doing, biting her lips raw every time they go at each other, like two wild wolves fighting for dominance. 

_Fucking hell, get it together Jas, your horny brain is taking the reigns in a way that might get you in trouble come morning. Don’t be stupid, don’t do anything you’ll regret, don’t do anything that might get your face punched in by Geralt or his super hot super scary sorceress girlfriend that you’re only half sure you don’t actually hate anymore-_

“My head’s not the only thing of mine that threatens to get bigger when you speak so highly of me, Yen.”

As soon as the words slip past his lips, unbidden and unexpected, he prepares himself for the punch.

“And _I’m_ the crass one, hm?” Yennefer chuckles, biting at her lip. She sits up straighter, cracks her neck and stretches her arms out. Jaskier is still a little stunned by his decidedly not-punched face, so he just doesn’t have the sense about him to keep his eyes from following the movement. “Besides, I figure it’s only fitting to compliment the first and only person to ever compose a song in my honor, don’t you?”

That, however, brings Jaskier back to himself significantly faster.

He sobers up in record time, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes widening in realization.

Surely she isn’t… she wouldn’t… would she? Yes, he’d performed the cursed song tonight. He’d already sung through most of his best upbeat songs and the crowd was still screaming for more, and so he’d panicked and resorted back to the song that he knew best, like the back of his hand. He’d sung it countless times throughout that short year after the dragon hunt, when he’d been traveling on his own for months. He’d sung it at the various inns he stopped at, sung it to his lovers to put them to sleep and occasionally to earn their sympathy (and therefore, comfort), and he’d sung it to himself while he sat by a fire, all alone, curled up and hugging his knees for support, nursing a bottle of much stronger alcohol than what he’s drinking tonight.

It was… his heart, poured into a song.

Obviously, all of his songs were, he put himself into everything he wrote. He was a person prone to feeling, stronger than what might be considered average. This translated into songs that evoked emotion in the listeners, so he could hardly complain. His songs were known to make people laugh, to make them dance, to make them swoon, to make them stare into the eyes of their lover and truly express the depth of what they felt for them. His songs weren’t, however, known to make people cry.

Not until that one.

He’d never been the type of person that _wanted_ to inspire tears. There was enough hurt in the world, enough pain, enough loneliness, who was he to bring about more? But that year had been the lowest point of his entire life and he’d been drowning in all that he felt, unable to speak a word of it to the one that he desperately needed to tell it to. And so he’d… put it all down into a song. A song that was only ever meant to be for his own ears, but against his better judgment and his sober self’s wishes, eventually became a tavern traveler like the rest of his work.

But, it did teach him one thing. The song didn’t inspire hurt in other people, it only gave them an outlet for the hurt they already felt. People related their own stories and emotions to it, and it brought them a bittersweet kind-of relief, to see their feelings in something outside of themselves. Heartbreak, after all, was a natural part of life.

“‘Her Sweet Kiss’?” Yennefer prompts, like he somehow doesn’t already know exactly what song it is she’s speaking of. He’s only ever written one song about her, thank-you very much, and he’ll never in his life forget it. The lyrics are burned into his brain like a brand. “I can’t believe Geralt hasn’t caught on yet, you’re so obvious with it. Getting careless in your old age. I’m pretty sure the entire audience knows you’re lusting after your witcher, and yet he himself has no idea.”

“Perhaps he doesn’t entertain the possibility that I can be interested in men as well as women.” He comments quietly, taking a sip of his drink to hide his wince. The mood has shifted. He’s tense and withdrawn, age-old pain bubbling back to the surface in an instant. It hadn’t been so bad to perform it, to sing it in front of the crowd like it was a song similar to any other, but here, discussing it with her, of all people… it’s something else entirely.

“I’m sure he’ll figure it out eventually.”

“That’s not the comfort that you seem to think it is.” Jaskier tells her, staring down at his hands. “I’d be perfectly content with him never realizing, it’s easier that way. I don’t want him to think that I expect anything different of him, or that he owes it to me to give me a reason for not feeling the same. I’m content with how we are. I wouldn’t want to complicate it unnecessarily.”

“You really are a self-sacrificing bastard, aren’t you? Nearly as bad as Geralt himself.” 

“I’m not-”

“No, listen to me.” Yennefer cuts him off, holding up a single finger in front of his face and ending the argument before it can even start. He stares at her finger until he goes cross-eyed, eyebrows eventually furrowing together in confusion. “You’ll never know unless you put yourself out there. You’re throwing away your own shot at happiness, so you don’t get to be upset with the hand you’ve been dealt. You haven’t even played the hand yet, Jaskier. You haven’t even _tried_.”

“Seriously?” Jaskier scoffs, glaring coldly at her. Something angry is flooding through him now, a type of emotion he hasn’t felt for a long while. Things have been good lately. Not perfect, but better than they have been, and he was starting to think maybe Yennefer and him were on the same page. It’s clear now that they’re not. That she doesn’t understand, perhaps never will.

“Yes, seriously.”

“I tried for _years_ before you came along. I followed in his footsteps, I begged for his attention, I went out of my way and bent over backwards for that man. By the time we met you and that damned djinn, I’d all but accepted that the rumors had to have been true. Witchers were incapable of feeling and Geralt’s utter lack of reaction to my advances were proof of it. But then… then you came along.”

“Jas-”

“You didn’t even _have_ to try. He dropped everything for you. He changed, the day he met you, and he hasn’t been the same since. You stole his heart in an instant and you didn’t even mean to. He fell for you like he’d stepped off a cliff, you damned witch, he took a dive head-first and fell like an anvil. He loves you so much, he has since the moment he met you, and I can’t see it changing in my lifetime. So, don’t you dare tell me I need to _try harder_. You and I both know love can’t be forced upon someone. He either feels something for me or he doesn’t, and I think he’s made it very clear by now that he does not.”

The air feels charged when he stops speaking. His hands are curled into angry fists atop the table and he can’t even bring himself to stomach another sip of his drink. Every part of him wants to rise and retreat, run away from the topic and the party alike. He’s hardly in the mood to take anyone to bed now, with his heart feeling full and swollen, heavy in his chest like it can no longer fit the amount of emotion he’s been cramming into it.

“I disagree. He feels something for you.” 

“Companionship, comradery, protectiveness-”

“No, you idiot, it’s _love_.” Yennefer cuts him off, narrowing her eyes at him. “Seriously, Jaskier, do you really think that Geralt would let just anyone follow him around for years? That man is an impenetrable fortress, he has walls built up around his heart that no one has scaled in the near-century he’s been alive. No one but you. The bard, plain and human, nothing particularly interesting about him-”

“Hey!”

“And yet, here you are. One of the two people in this entire universe that has caught and held Geralt of Rivia’s attention for longer than a fortnight.” Yennefer finishes firmly, ignoring his interjection. Jaskier slowly closes his mouth, tries to swallow around his weighty tongue. “He loves you, Jaskier. Maybe he doesn’t even realize it, maybe it’s a different kind of love entirely, but make no mistake, what Geralt feels for you is just as strong and all-encompassing as what he feels for me.”

“ _Yen_.”

“You wanna know my theory?” Yennefer is back to her sadistic ways as usual, continuing to speak on the topic even though Jaskier is sure it’s clear by now that he’s on the brink of tears. He’s struggling to draw a breath, blinking rapidly, his entire face aflame. 

She leans in close to him, their foreheads pressed together for a fleeting second as she delivers the fatal blow to his composure. “The only reason he fell for me like an anvil was because you were there at the bottom of the cliff, promising to catch him.”

_Fuck_.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck, indeed. I really wish you two would.” Yennefer hums, like that’s a completely normal admission to make, and tosses her hair back over her shoulder. Jaskier chokes, this time without so much as a sip of ale to blame it on. Geralt jerks upright on the other side of the room, turning to stare toward them, worry flashing across his features at the sound of Jaskier choking. Maybe it’s a matter of PTSD, from the day Jaskier had nearly suffocated to death from the djinn. 

The moment he’s reassured Jaskier will be fine, Geralt gives him a nod, a hint of a smile lingering on his lips as he turns back to the men he’s talking to. Jaskier’s heart feels full again, but it’s no longer heavy, it’s light. So light it could float away from him. “Gods, the way he _looks_ at you sometimes, I’m surprised you haven’t snapped and simply climbed him like a tree. When he looks at me like that, my clothes are on the floor before he has the time to process what it is he’s done to light my fire so.”

“I wrote it a long time ago.”

“What?”

“‘Her Sweet Kiss’, I wrote it years ago now, I’ve just never performed it with Geralt around until tonight, and so you never heard it.” Jaskier tells her slowly, wondering if it’s crossing a boundary to compliment her back. He’s out of his element here. They’d been clinging to the concept of being enemies for so long, that even now that it’s so clear they aren’t, it’s hard to let go of it. “I wrote it that day after the dragon hunt, when Geralt took his anger toward you out on me and I thought it was the end of our friendship for good. I thought… you took him from me. I was heartbroken.” 

“Oh.”

“I don’t think you’re destroying him, but rather helping him grow. You’re good for him, arguably the best thing that’s ever happened to him. He needs you, needs someone he respects enough to listen to even if they’re saying something he doesn’t want to hear. You’re strong-willed, bossy, stubborn, everything he is and more and on all accounts you really should be a terrible match… but I think that’s exactly why you work so well. But more than any of that, you make him happy. That’s all that matters, at the end of the day, and you bring him so much happiness I don’t think he knows what to do with it all.”

“Oh.”

“Oh? Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself?” Jaskier laughs, but it’s tinny and forced, uncomfortable with the corner he’s backed himself into. He’s always been good at expressing affection, it’s one of his strongest qualities, but it’s different with Yennefer. Things between them are rocky and unstable, and he never knows how what he says will actually land. At best, it’ll be a scoff or a smirk, and at worst it’ll be a punch or some manner of painful magic.

But this, this wide-eyed and almost shocked expression she’s wearing, mouth slightly agape in a pretty pout, utterly genuine in her reaction… Jaskier has no idea what to do with that.

And so, he does what he always does in situations like these with Geralt, and he changes the subject as fast as his tongue can twist. “Besides, I’m glad that he has someone else. Someone who can keep him company after I’ve aged and withered away. He said it himself once, that a human’s lifespan is just a blink in a witcher’s eyes. I think it’s part of why he never allowed himself to get attached to anyone before, I don’t think he could take losing them. So I think it’s for the best, that he picked you over me, I’d have to be a selfish man to want him to pick me and to end up alone for the rest of his days after I die.”

“Wait, what?”

“Sixty or seventy years, give or take, that’s the extent of a human man’s lifespan assuming I live to old age and Geralt’s misadventures don’t get me killed before then. Geralt is in his nineties now at least and he’s still in his prime, I mean, look at him. He’s probably got a few hundred years left in him, easily.”

“Jaskier, you really _are_ a fool.” Well, damn, there’s the Yennefer he knows, painfully insensitive to his feelings as usual. He’s just spilled his heart out to her, his deepest and innermost fears, that he means little in the grand scheme of Geralt’s life and he’s running out of time. It’s not even a ludicrous thing to fear when it’s so jarringly obvious, watching himself age as the years pass while Geralt and Yennefer remain completely untouched by time’s cruel hand.

Worse than the death itself will be the day he grows too old and brittle to accompany them any longer and he gets _left behind_. Geralt will be kind about it, he’s sure, will leave him in the hands of a trusted companion that will look after his dying physical body while he lies there and agonizes over all that he’s missing out on, all that he never got the chance to say, all that he never got the chance to do.

Yennefer is looking at him strangely. Like she’s sucked on a lemon.

He’s about to snap at her for it, when her hand darts out toward him. He closes his eyes, once again braces for a hit to his most sensitive places, and instead… he feels her fingertip smooth across his cheekbone in one quick swipe. When his eyelashes flutter open again, he notices the tears clinging to them, and curses himself for allowing it. Then, belatedly, he realizes that she’s wiped a tear away from his face. 

Their eyes meet and her face is no longer lemon-soured, it’s sweet and sympathetic, openly comforting.

“You really think we’re going to let you get old and die before us? Well, Geralt might try to, you know how he is. He’s a self-sacrificing bastard too, painstakingly selfless, and he’d never _ask_ you to give up your mortality or humanity to stay by his side no matter how badly he wanted it.” Yennefer muses, going back in with both hands now to brush away Jaskier’s tears. She continues almost conversationally as she does so, like the act itself is nothing to get hung up on. “Luckily for us both, I’m neither self-sacrificing nor selfless, and I’m going to keep you here as long as I very well please. And I’m sorry to tell you, but it’ll be a long while yet. You make him happy just as much as I, and I can’t stand the thought of spending a small eternity with him while he’s moping over your loss.”

“He _does_ mope, doesn’t he?” Jaskier laughs, cracks a teary-eyed smile around the lump in his throat.

“You’re not going anywhere, Jas, you’re staying with us for as long as you want to. I’ll make sure of it.”

“You promise?” It’s meant to come across as another joke, an attempt to get things back on track and veer them back into familiar territory. He hates when he does this, lets his emotions dampen the mood, lets himself look so weak when his companions both seem so strong and untouchable. He knows, in his heart, that his ability to feel is something that makes him strong. But it’s hard to think like that when he’s sat there crying at a party, consumed by his fears.

It doesn’t come across as a joke. Neither does Yennefer’s response.

“I _promise_.”

Yennefer has always been a woman of her word and the relief it brings now is insurmountable.

Jaskier couldn’t begin to express his thankfulness for her gift of allowing him to dress Geralt, how he’s meant to thank her for something as heavy as this is a foreign concept entirely. There is no gift more valuable than what she’s offering, the ability to stay by Geralt’s side until the bitter end, to go beyond what his human lifespan would allot him.

And he knows it isn't a light offering either, that even for Yennefer the magic that would require would be more than a flippant one-time over favor. It would be work, for her, and a lot of it. Yet she's still offering. And he doesn't know how to say no, knows he doesn't really want to, so there's nothing to do but thank her.

“Very well then. Thank-you. I much appreciate it.” Jaskier coughs, loudly, into his fist. He swipes uselessly at his face to gather the last of his tears, doesn’t even care if the saltwater stains his expensive silks. He takes a few deep, measured breaths to calm himself until he doesn’t feel lightheaded. And then rises to his feet, ready to retreat. “I’m gonna go fetch myself another drink and-”

“Dance with me.” 

“ _What_?”

“You heard me.”

“With _you_?” Jaskier repeats, trying and failing to make sense of it. She’s staring at him in that same earnest way though and he’s fairly certain it isn’t a joke at his expense, so he lets his guard down a little bit and tries to joke his way out of it. “What is this? A new tactic to make Geralt jealous? Rile him up before you take him to bed? I’m not sure it’ll work.”

“No.” Yennefer gives him a bored look, like he’s the one being unnecessarily difficult whilst she’s out here trying to rewrite the very nature of their relationship. “Perhaps you’ve been too busy admiring Geralt all night to notice, but you’re soaking panties and hardening cocks just as much as he is. You are the talk of the party, Jaskier, you should hear the things those prissy countesses are saying about you. It’d certainly make you rethink your definition of crass, I can tell you that much.”

“And what? You’d like to put them in their place? Make them think I belong to you?”

“Sometimes, Jaskier, you seem to forget that I’m only human.” Yennefer sighs, gets to her feet and slides her hand around his. His fingers twitch with the urge to pull away in a bid for self-preservation, but he grits his teeth and ignores it. She smiles at him, toothy and wicked in turn. “I _have_ eyes, just like them.”

“I suppose there’s no harm in it.” Jaskier relents, allowing himself to be dragged toward the middle of the room where couples are scattered around. He catches Geralt’s eyes from across the room, bright and intrigued, yellow irises standing out in the dim torch-light room. Jaskier hopes, not for the first time, that he isn’t giving Geralt the wrong idea again. 

But Geralt doesn’t charge toward them to pull them apart, instead simply turning back to his table and downing another cup of ale like the beast he is. And so, Jaskier relaxes when they reach the dancefloor and holds Yennefer properly, like he would any woman. She’s not a bad dancer, but far from as practiced and perfect as one would think. She’s clumsy on her feet, leans into him for support when she threatens to trip, and can hardly take it seriously for more than a minute before she’s chuckling to herself again under her breath. She’s… remarkably human, like this.

They dance and drink until they’re clumsy with it, clinging onto each other and frequently near-toppling to the floor. Yennefer doesn’t hold her alcohol nearly as well as Geralt, despite the whole immortal benefits she’s packing as well. When she drinks, she gets sloshed with it, until she’s giggly and sweet and coy and all the things that a sober Yennefer of Vengerberg is decidedly _not_. 

And to a drunken Jaskier, it’s the most amusing thing he’s ever encountered in his _life_.

It’s a feedback loop they can’t break free of, until they’re both laughing more than they’re actually dancing, hardly aware of the bard singing loudly behind them. They’re in a world entirely of their own, far away from the party and the crowds of people no doubt staring at the two of them. They’re only here to have fun, to loosen up, to relax into each other and finally allow themselves to be open.

Jaskier doesn’t hate Yennefer. Not anymore than he hates Geralt, which is to say, not at all.

Eventually, as all good things are prone to do, their antics come to an end. A pair of heavy hands settle on Jaskier’s hips from behind and he yelps, prepared to be hauled off by a scorned man who wants his head (or his cock) on a pike for the wrongdoings of his past. He’s prepared for the worst, given that Yen is hardly in a state to defend him, and he hasn’t seen his dear friend Geralt for nary an hour now and-

“And what do we have here?” Geralt hums, low and throaty, near the nape of Jaskier’s neck. It elicits shivers through him from head to toe and he has to physically resist the urge to lean back against Geralt’s chest and make a home for himself there, to bask in that sensation longer. It’s easier said than done in his drunken state, and if he tilts his head back to Geralt’s shoulder and stares longingly at the slope of his jawline, well, no one calls him out on it at least. 

“I was _just_ thinking about you.” Jaskier hiccups, giggling as he turns and buries his face into the collar of Geralt’s jacket. Oh, it’s such a lovely jacket, the softest cool material against his flushed skin. He inhales deeply and his knees nearly buckle beneath him at the scent that fills his nostrils, all cedarwood and fresh rainfall and chamomile. Fuck, what Jaskier would give to bottle that scent, to keep it for himself and covet it like it deserves-

“Were you?” Geralt questions, craning his neck to the side so they can make eye contact again. He looks deeply amused by whatever’s visible in Jaskier’s expression, but try as he may, Jaskier can’t wipe his face clean from it. 

“Mm, wondering if you and your new friends were still getting along.”

“They’re no friends of mine. The locals have a wyvern problem and those men were giving me the details on it. One thing led to another and I ended up recounting some of my past hunts with them, they hardly let me leave.” Geralt explains, but he seems distracted. With good reason too, given that Yennefer is still dancing against Jaskier’s front, and she’s dissolved into slow languid rolls of her hips against him that _really_ aren’t appropriate. Ah, fuck. 

But Geralt doesn’t seem mad, if anything his amusement only grows. He lets out one of those soft little huffs, barely more than a rumble in his chest, and Jaskier belatedly realizes that he’s _laughing_ at the two of them. Jaskier scoffs, doesn’t even feel bad about it when he grips Yennefer’s hips and yanks them back against his with more force. He doesn’t like being dismissed as less than a threat. He may not sleep around as much as he used to and he may be above stealing Geralt’s woman out from under him, but damn it, he’s still _got it_. He could charm his way under the skirts of any dress in this room, thank-you.

Geralt quirks a single eyebrow at that, but the smile on his lips remains untouched. “Such a shame too, when you two were having so much fun over here without me.”

“Next time, tell them to find their cheap entertainment elsewhere, you’re a busy man.” Yen says, looking back over her shoulder at the two of them. Her gaze flickers between Jaskier and Geralt, eyes dark and hooded, filled with a level of intent that has Jaskier immediately wanting to backtrack even with alcohol fueling his confidence. He didn’t sign up for this, oh no, he did not. Yennefer is a whole lot of woman to handle and though he could very well charm his way under her skirt, he quite likes having all his bits attached to him and he’s not sure he’d live to see the morning if she were to have her way with him.

The panic on his face must show, because soon her gaze lands on Geralt and stays. Her hips continue to rock against Jaskier, and his cock (the utter traitor) makes a valiant effort to harden despite his tight silk pants. Yennefer reaches up, fingertips tracing the scruff of Geralt’s beard, scratching it lightly with her nails as he leans into the touch. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too.” Geralt answers, crowding closer to Jaskier’s back to close the space between them even further. Yennefer leans her head back to meet him halfway, tilts until her entire neck is on display, and brushes their lips together despite the awkward angle. And Jaskier, trapped between Geralt’s front and Yennefer’s back, has very little wiggle room to do much of anything at all aside from turn into a horny puddle of goo between them.

Oh fuck, oh hell, he’s going to get hard and Geralt will smell it on him and-

“Guys, come on, I don’t think it’s too much to ask that you push me aside before going all horny on each other. I didn’t volunteer to be a part of this sandwich.” His voice cracks three times throughout the two sentences. Geralt grunts in acknowledgement before reluctantly pulling back, despite the way Yennefer’s lips attempt to chase his after they separate. She whines pitifully, but otherwise gives up quickly, going back to dancing against Jaskier. Her hands reach up behind her head though, fingers weaving through Jaskier’s hair, pulling his face down into the curve of her neck.

Now, because he’s a masochist and apparently loses all control of himself while drunk, he catches himself inhaling again against her smooth skin. She’s the opposite of Geralt, but he immediately decides it’s equally as nice. Her scent light and airy, floral like the wildflowers Jaskier had picked for Geralt to give her all those months ago. 

“Sorry, Jas.” Geralt chuckles, his nose brushing against Jaskier’s ear. And fuck, his body is like a furnace against Jaskier’s back, throwing so much heat it borders on suffocating. Yet he makes no effort to put space between them, if anything it’s taking every ounce of self-control he has not to wind his hips back against Geralt’s just like Yennefer’s doing to him. “Mind if I steal your partner for a moment?”

“Help yours-”

“I don’t mind at all.” Yennefer speaks over him, firmly. She spins around, her eyes sparkling with mirth and her smile absolutely devious. She places her hands on Jaskier’s shoulders, pushes him back against Geralt unceremoniously. “Have at him. He’s a wonderful dancer, light on his feet and soft in your arms.”

“Yennefer, wait, I-” Geralt calls after her, but she’s already gone. It’s impressive how little she wavers as she waltzes across the room, toward an empty seat at a mostly-empty table. The utter bitch, she’s left Jaskier out here on his own! All on his own... with his body slotted up against the length of Geralt’s.

He has the planes of Geralt’s firm chest pressed against his shoulder blades, and Geralt’s heated breath ghosting across the nape of his neck, and don’t even get him started on the notches of Geralt’s _hipbones_ where they’re pressed sharply into the meat of Jaskier’s ass. He’s all strong bones and thick muscle head to toe, and Jaskier is getting the unique experience of becoming intimately familiar with it right now.

If Jaskier really, really concentrates… he thinks he can even feel Geralt’s soft cock between his arse cheeks despite the layers of fine silk separating them, hung like a horse as the bastard is.

He’s not sure whether Yen’s a blessing or a curse during moments like these.

“She confuses me.” Geralt mumbles, as he stares longingly after Yennefer. 

Jaskier isn’t entirely sure he can speak right now, let alone if he should, but he knows that it’ll only raise suspicions more if he stays silent. Jaskier is chatty at the best of times, but especially when he’s drunk, and Geralt knows that fact well by now. So… he has to say something. Preferably something that has absolutely nothing to do with the way Jaskier is definitely hard in his silks now, cock weeping pathetically against fabric that costs more than he makes in an entire season from busking.

He waits for Geralt’s sharp inhale as he scents the air, his disgusted scoff, his hands on Jaskier’s hips shoving hard to put space between them. It never comes. Geralt is stiff behind him, frozen as still as a statue, not pushing him away but making no effort to dance either. He’s just… there. And Jaskier feels like he’s about to lose his fucking mind with it.

“She’s fairly confusing.” Jaskier manages to squeak out, finally.

“Hm.” Geralt exhales heavily, audibly, and his breath ghosts across the gooseflesh littering Jaskier’s entire neck. His hands are still on Jaskier’s hips but they feel heavier now, constricting, almost bruising, and he can’t tell if Geralt’s grip has actually gotten tighter or if he’s imagining it. If Jaskier closes his eyes, he can imagine Geralt holding his hips even tighter, using his grip to pin him in place and fuck into him from be-

“She’s not mad at you, if you’re fretting over that.” Jaskier blurts out, eyes darting open as he comes back to the moment all at once. He needs to get out of here. He’s letting himself get carried away, the alcohol making it hard to fight his natural urges. Temptation has never looked quite so tempting.

“I wasn’t fretting.” Geralt mutters, dismissive.

Fuck, what is Jaskier meant to say now? 

It’s almost pathetic, how hard he is, like he could come from the first stroke to his cock without any trouble at all. If he were a younger man, he might be able to excuse it on raging hormones or a high libido, but he’s nearing forty now damn it, he has no right to be this hard just from a few fleeting touches and the knowledge that Geralt’s monstrous cock is pressed up against his ass. It’s embarrassing.

Especially because he knows that Geralt knows. There’s no way that he doesn’t. At this point, he wouldn’t even have to intentionally scent the air in search of it, the smell of sex must be so strong to him that it’s clinging to the insides of his nostrils. He has to know. And yet, he says nothing.

Jaskier finally decides he can’t take it any longer and shrugs out of Geralt’s hold, swaying on his feet as he stumbles away from him. He spins around, faces Geralt with a smile, prays that those amber eyes won’t look down to where Jaskier’s cock is plainly on display through his trousers.

“Well, the night is young and I still have many a song in my roster, I should-” Jaskier lets out a yelp when Geralt grabs his wrist, leads him toward the far corner of the room. Helpless to his whims and far too far gone for the man to protest, he lets himself be manhandled away from the crowds and into the shadows. As they pass by Yennefer’s table, she gives him a not-at-all discreet drunken thumbs up, and Jaskier thinks he’s either going to kill her or kiss her come morning. 

But then, once they finally get to that dark-lit sketchy corner, Geralt doesn’t press him up against the brickwork and fuck him like an animal would. He just… pours Jaskier a glass of water, of all things, and hands it to him. Begrudgingly, Jaskier accepts the offering, understands that Geralt is only trying to minimize the damage Jaskier has done to his poor, aging body with the amount of alcohol he’s had tonight.

Once he’s done drinking, Jaskier sets the cup aside and moves to leave. He doesn’t really like being treated like a thing in need of monitoring and care, like the _fragile human_ that can’t look out for himself properly. He knows that Geralt means well, but it’s condescending without meaning to be.

He makes it all of a step before Geralt grabs for his hand again and he goes willingly, pulled back into Geralt’s chest. But this time, oh the glory, he’s pulled face-first between those two well-rounded pecs and he immediately sags off his feet and bears all his weight into Geralt. Here, Geralt is at his warmest, his scent strong and cloying.

Jaskier could die a damn happy man right here, right now.

“Was that a new song earlier?” Geralt asks, completely ignoring the fact that Jaskier’s got his face buried between his tits and is making no effort to remove it. It takes a whopping minute and a half for Jaskier to come to grips enough to respond, muffled and slurred against the fabric of Geralt’s dress shirt.

“Oh, um, well... _yes_? Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” Geralt dismisses himself quickly and normally Jaskier would have the sense about him to pry further, but as it is he just nods dumbly and relaxes further into Geralt’s body. Strong arms loop under his shoulders when he starts to crumple toward the floor, and then Geralt yanks him back onto his feet and pulls him back into his hold a little tighter. It’s beautiful.

Or, it had the potential to be beautiful, if the movement hadn’t changed their positions and jostled Jaskier like a very horny ragdoll. Geralt’s thigh somehow ends up between his legs, likely for some perfectly harmless reason like supporting his body weight better, but the reaction is very plainly not harmless. 

Jaskier gasps, threading his fingers into Geralt’s shirt and tugging on it weakly in an effort to ground himself. His hips stutter minutely, grinding against the heavy pressure and warmth between his legs. He’s drunk and fuzzy, exhaustion nipping at him, and it’s all too easy to chase the sensation with no regard for what it actually _means_. 

Geralt is rigid and unmoving against him, but Jaskier is lost to it. Now that he’s started, he’s not sure he can stop. Everything is so warm, so solid, and it smells so good. He never feels as safe as he does gathered up in Geralt’s arms and sheltered from the rest of the world, and so his inhibitions somehow manage to drop even further, knowing that Geralt will protect him from wandering eyes. He may not be able to protect Jaskier from himself, but that’s a concern for another time, in the far future, after he’s gotten off because his cock _aches_ with how hard he is.

His hips rock experimentally back and forth, just getting a feel for the rhythm and testing the boundaries of what he can get away with. He’s giggling breathlessly, hand coming up to toy with the buttons of Geralt’s shirt and undo them even further, until he’s burying his face into warm skin and scratchy chest hair. He sighs happily, grinding harder and chasing a more steady friction.

He’s half out of it, eyes drooping and body all but boneless aside from what it takes to keep his hips moving and chasing pleasure. So when Geralt’s hands settle in his hair to comb gently through it, and that gruff voice shushes him gently, he nearly passes out. He doesn’t, from sheer power of will alone, but he definitely sways on his feet to the point that Geralt has to grab for him again.

“Not like you to compose an entire song and not pick my brain about it once throughout the process. I can’t lie, I’m a little offended.” Geralt comments, his voice completely even, giving away nothing in terms of emotions. Jaskier doesn’t have it within himself to look up and study his friend’s expression either, so he just blindly keeps bucking his hips against him. The friction is wonderful, even in the blasted tight pants he’s wearing. His cock is hard and straining against its confines, but the silk is soft as a lover’s caress against him, especially as it grows wet with pre-cum. 

“It wasn’t anything personal, y-you see, ah, I was just-”

“There is something to be said for experiencing it as a finished product, though.” Geralt says then, and though he’s still too gone to lift his head and search it out, he can _hear_ the smile in Geralt’s voice and it does something funny to his heart. He whimpers weakly, entire body shuddering. “It was nice, Jaskier.”

“ _Yeah_?” 

“Mm. I like your voice much better when you aren’t trying so hard to entertain. It’s less… grating.”

Oh gods, oh gods, _oh no_ … the physical stuff of it all was one thing, one very overwhelming thing, but is Geralt really bringing _praise_ into the mix? Surely he must know what it does to Jaskier, they’ve been traveling together long enough now. One hasty halfhearted compliment is enough to make Jaskier catch feelings for a stranger, but when it’s coming from _Geralt_ , the person that matters most to him?

The noise Jaskier makes is downright embarrassing, reedy and desperate, a higher pitch than what most of the women he’s slept with were capable of. His orgasm hits him like a punch to the gut, pleasure blooming and spreading throughout his entire body with the force of the impact. He’s clumsy and eager with it, choking out Geralt’s name as he loses himself in the throes of pleasure, so overwhelming it borders on being painful.

His hips keep jerking, little choppy movements, chasing the sensation even now as he spills inside his trousers and makes a mess of himself. He’s never in his life lost control so wholly. It’s definitely shameful how much quicker he reached his peak when Geralt was the one he was groping at.

Afterwards, he slumps like a bag of potatoes against Geralt’s front, completely spent. His eyelids are heavy like lead and he doesn’t have it within himself to fight against it, so he just lets them close. He sighs happily, nuzzling further into the wall of warmth in front of him. Sleep would be _so nice_ right now.

“Hm.” Jaskier’s pillow rumbles against his cheek and his eyes fly open in realization.

Fuck, fucking hell… he just came all over Geralt’s thigh unbidded, like a common pervert. Even through the haze of alcohol and adrenaline, he recognizes that he’s made a _mistake_. Maybe Geralt was willing to let it slide as an accident or a joke at first, but for Jaskier to actually bring himself off using his body is something else entirely. He’s crossed a line.

“Fuck. Geralt, I can explain.” Jaskier bites out, trying to stumble backward. It doesn’t work as planned though, as he trips over himself and nearly topples face-first to the floor. Geralt catches him though, pulling him upright for the umpteenth time. And really, he should be thankful he’s just had his life saved, but all he can find it within himself to be is pissed, because now he has to make _eye contact_ with those piercing yellow eyes as he stutters through his explanation. “Earlier, I meant to bed that busty redhead, but then I got talking with Yen and then the talking led to dancing and, well, to make a long story short, I was already pretty worked up when you came over here so don’t take it personally or anyth-”

“It’s okay, Jas, no need for excuses.” Geralt tells him, tone serious, and Jaskier’s heart falls down to his feet and settles there. He feels like he could cry. But then Geralt is laughing, deep and throaty, louder than he normally allows himself to. “If I’d only known how much my positive feedback meant to you before now, I could have used it to my advantage.”

“Fuck you.” Jaskier slurs, but he’s laughing despite himself, an infectious bubbly giggle that fills him from head to toe until he’s once-again threatening to topple over. Geralt’s hands catch him again, but they don’t retreat this time. Instead, he’s hauled off his feet completely, up into the air by a strong pair of arms that he’s grown used to being manhandled by.

He gives a weak squeak of protest, as he’s thrown over the witcher’s shoulder not for the first time and surely not for the last. It really is demeaning, to be carried around like a misbehaving child. He could walk on his own, thank-you very much. Or at least crawl. He’s performed the drunken crawl back to his quarters many times and he’s not incapable just because Geralt is an option now.

In the end, he decides he doesn’t have it in him to put up a fight. He just sags against Geralt with a sigh and lets himself be hauled away. It’d be most uncomfortable to crawl with his own cum drying against his skin, after all. And besides… Geralt… smells nice. He’s warm and soft and so, so pretty. And Jaskier is at least _half_ certain he’s managing to bite his tongue to keep from saying as much out loud.

“Tired now, aren’t you, songbird?”

“Mm.” Jaskier hums sleepily in acknowledgement, hanging loose-limbed and limp, letting his head loll wherever it likes to with each jostling step Geralt takes below him. Every now and then, he cracks an eye open to admire the way Geralt’s ass shifts beneath his form-fitting pants as he walks. Cheekily, he swats at it with his hand, giggling to himself.

Geralt sighs hard in response before tossing him up into the air, catching him again before Jaskier even has the time to worry he might be dropped. And suddenly he’s cradled in close to Geralt’s chest, sadly out of reach of any further ass-slapping escapades. But, barely coherent and half-asleep, Jaskier distantly registers that Geralt’s carrying him with an arm supporting beneath his back and beneath his knees, held protectively like a groom carrying his bride across the threshold. That thought alone is enough to have him finally settling in and stopping his restless fidgeting, instead tucking his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck and relishing the moment.

“That’s it. Get some sleep. I’ve got you.”

Geralt’s _got him_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you may be able to tell, this is the part of the story where I got Carried Away and wrote the scene way too long. I was having too much fun, I couldn't help myself!!! I love a good drunken thigh-humping shenanigans scene, I need you to know that about me. I also just really like the idea of Yen eventually hearing "Her Sweet Kiss" and just,, being willing to talk about it to Jaskier and hear him out. I don't know, it felt like something i needed to read and i couldn't find it, so i wrote it Myself.
> 
> an update on my playthrough of the witcher: its day 3546.... still haven't met dandelion... ple ase... i want to see my little Boy (here he comes)
> 
> As always, thanks for reading and thank-you so much for any comments you leave!! I really appreciate them.
> 
> My social medias:
> 
> @melancholymango is my main acc on twitter/tumblr  
> @redgaysonly is my nsfw fandom acc on twitter where things get horn-knee


	5. 'Cause there's no better love that's laid beside me

Jaskier wakes and he’s immediately certain he’s died and gone to hell. It’s hot. Everything, everywhere, is blistering in temperature. Even the hottest days of summer hadn’t been so cruel to him, to the point of making every inch of his skin slick with sweat in his sleep. Despite the fact that he’s wearing far less than his usual bed clothes, just a pair of underwear that are equally as damp and hot and sticky. It’s hell, without a doubt, he can’t imagine a single way it could be worse-

“I think he’s awake.” It’s Yennefer’s voice, low and conspiratorial, whispering softly enough that if he’d been truly asleep it would have gone unnoticed. It sends his mind into a flurry of panic, painstakingly aware of his state of undress and the fact he can’t remember how it _happened_. He doesn’t dare to move though, trying his best to stay perfectly still and keep his breathing even.

There’s a low rumble of a noise behind him and Jaskier can’t help it, he goes tense head to toe, realizes too late that the heat he can feel through the sheets is a body pressed up close to his back. There isn’t a question in his mind that it’s Geralt, no one else could spoon him and make him feel so utterly suffocated with it, like he’s been pulled into the clutches of a particularly soft-intentioned bear. 

“Shh. Let him sleep.” Geralt warns her, just a hint of scolding in his tongue. His breath ghosts across Jaskier’s bare neck as he speaks and it’s hard not to shiver or react outwardly to it. Knowing that Geralt is here, he has to be even more careful to take practiced breaths, to remain calm if he wants them to believe that he’s still unconscious between them. “He drank a fair amount more than he should have and I’m not convinced your magic has completely combatted the hangover.”

“I didn’t know you had such a caring streak about you, oh mighty white wolf.”

“Shut-up.” Geralt snaps at her, but even that is gentle. 

“Make me.”

“No, we’ll wake Jaskier.” Gods, every part of it is so painstakingly gentle, they’re the loudest and most brash people he’s ever met and yet they’ve gone impossibly soft to accommodate Jaskier’s sleeping form. Nevermind when a hand settles on his forehead, fingers carding through his hair and pushing it back from his eyes. “He’ll complain all morning if we wake him too early.”

“He’ll complain no matter _when_ we wake him.”

“I’m trying to delay the inevitable, then.”

“Whatever. You and I both know you’re just enjoying the fact that someone is finally indulging your obsession with cuddling in the mornings… look at how sweaty he is. That’s exactly why I banish you to the other side of the bed every night, you run hotter than a furnace.”

“Do you think he’s uncomfortable?”

“Oh no, he looks _quite_ comfortable to me.”

“Yeah?” 

“Like the cat who got the canary.” Yennefer answers pointedly, her hand sliding lower so she can trace her fingers across the side of Jaskier’s face. Eventually, she comes to a stop gripping his jaw, her thumb rubbing lightly across his bottom lip. “We know you’re awake, Jaskier. I’m not even a witcher and I can hear the change in your breathing.”

Damn it. Damn it all. 

Of course he’d _known_ that they were only playing along for his sake, stretching out the moment until he felt ready to announce the fact he was awake on his own terms. Geralt can hear a deer’s breath across a clearing, obviously he can detect the shift in Jaskier between unconscious and conscious. He’d just hoped that if he stayed quiet, the moment would stretch on for far longer.

He’s sandwiched between the two most attractive people that walk the planet, as far as he’s concerned, so can anyone really blame him for not rushing to change that? Curiously, he wonders if something happened between the three of them the night before. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s been too drunk to remember a sexcapade, though he thinks it’d be hard to forget something like being a third to Geralt and Yennefer. 

“In my defense, I think anyone would hyperventilate when waking up between the two of you.”

After Jaskier speaks, he hesitantly cracks an eye open. Yennefer is the first thing he sees, lying on her side and facing him, hands tucked under her face on the pillow. Then, slowly, his gaze drifts down to where Geralt’s arm is slung over his hip from behind. Muscular, pale, covered in a smattering of silver hair and scars that’d be impossible not to recognize. 

“How are you feeling?” Geralt asks, blatantly ignoring the flirty comment as usual. 

“Good. Thanks… for the magic or whatever.” Jaskier replies, stretching his arms out above his head and rolling his neck to crack it. He doesn’t feel the slightest bit nauseous like he normally would after a night of letting the bottle get the better of him. Still, the blatant blankness in his memory is more worrisome than a little sickness ever could be. “Mind telling me why I’m in your bed and not my own?”

“Drunken you was very insistent that you didn’t want to sleep alone last night.” Yennefer says, her smile holding a wickedness to it as their eyes meet. Jaskier narrows his eyes at her. “Actually, drunken you was quite insistent that he didn’t want to sleep alone _any_ night, and that we were doing him a terrible disservice by no longer sharing rooms. He called us cruel and _inhumane_.”

Jaskier feels the blush heat up his face, blooming at the base of his neck and crawling all the way to the tips of his ears. He can only imagine what a fool he’d made of himself then, if he was saying stuff such as that. He really has no right to complain, they’re a couple and they’re entitled to their privacy. It’s not their fault he’s clingy by nature, doesn’t like to be alone with his thoughts for too long, doesn’t like to be too far away from Geralt after all the horrors he’s seen over the years.

“Drunken me is a whiny little bastard, isn’t he? You shouldn’t listen to his dramatics.” Jaskier huffs under his breath, immediately dismissive. He doesn’t want them to think they have to do this for him again, ever, if anything he wishes they hadn’t last night. He’s never going to be able to scrub this memory from his brain, how it feels to be plastered between the two of them. It’s going to be harder to sleep alone now than it ever was before.

“Is it true?” Geralt asks then, a deep rumble next to his ear. “Does it bother you, sleeping alone?”

Jaskier gives a choked, ruined noise. 

Yennefer just laughs, light and airy, and sits up to get out of the bed. The sheets pool around her hips and Jaskier doesn’t even bother to avert his eyes. She’s hardly a stranger to nudity, he’s seen her bare chest more often than he’s seen Geralt’s and they’ve been traveling together for a far shorter time. 

“Don’t ask me serious questions seconds after I’ve woken, Geralt.” Jaskier pleads uselessly, hoping that they’ll show him some mercy. But Geralt just lifts a single bushy eyebrow, something amused playing at the corners of his lips. And Jaskier groans, sinks his face back into the pillows and mumbles his muffled response, knowing Geralt will hear anyway. “Sometimes, I guess. On particularly cold nights, or when the nightmares come calling, but you shouldn’t worry yourself about it. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

There’s a long beat of silence that has Jaskier wondering if he should have been honest after all, if lying would have been easier. He doesn’t want Geralt to read too far into this, doesn’t want him to think that Jaskier is incapable of being on his own. He’s been on his own before, chances are he will be again. He’s no stranger to loneliness, he’s just getting spoiled from sleeping under the stars in a bedroll laid out next to Geralt and Yen’s, now it’s strange to fall asleep without the quiet sound of their breaths and the fire crackling.

“We’ll share a room from now on, then.” Geralt comes out with out of nowhere, sounding far too certain about the fact. Jaskier bolts upright like a startled cat, eyes wide and mouth agape, hair falling carelessly in his eyes in such a thick curtain he can hardly see Geralt’s face clearly. 

Seeing his shock, Geralt’s confidence wanes visibly, and he corrects himself. “One room, two beds.” 

“I didn’t-” Jaskier isn’t sure what he’s attempting to do, reject the idea altogether or assure Geralt that he doesn’t want to reject it, that he would have been perfectly happy before the two-bed amendment was made. Either way, he doesn’t get to share, because Geralt speaks over him and rises out of the bed.

“I’m going to find someone to draw a bath for you.” 

“But-”

“I’ll get them to start your breakfast while I’m down there, so don’t be too long.” Geralt explains, not even looking back as he strides out of the room, utterly shirtless. If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d say that Geralt looks nervous, bashful almost if the hurried way he scurries out of sight is anything to go by. But, Geralt of Rivia doesn’t get bashful, and certainly not nervous.

Jaskier stares after him for a long moment, completely and utterly lost.

And then he attempts to roll out of the bed, figuring he should get his bath oils in order, and promptly freezes on the edge of the mattress. Slowly, like a man staring a beast in the eye, his gaze drops down to his lap where he can feel the telltale flakiness of dried come sticking his smallclothes to his body. He...

“Yennefer.” Jaskier calls, his voice as even as he can make it be. He looks up just in time to watch her step out from behind the room divider, her hands busy threading earrings into her ears. She tilts her head to the side, giving him a most curious look. “Why am I covered in my own spend?”

Something unreadable flickers across her face, but she’s quick to cover it up with a wide grin.

“Would you believe that it was a busty redhead?” She offers, and the dodging of the question really is answer in itself. So something did happen between them last night. This is… the last possible outcome, if Jaskier is being honest. He didn’t expect this to happen in a million years, drunk or sober, it just wasn’t on the table. But here he is, covered in the evidence that he was wrong. 

Jaskier tries desperately to remember the events of the night before, but despite the magic his head is still irritatingly uncooperative, refusing to give him the memories back. He doesn’t feel the telltale ache in his backside, so he didn’t take a cock, certainly not the massive one that swings between Geralt’s legs.

There’s only one way to know for sure, so Jaskier swallows his pride and asks her.

“What happened? Really?”

“You don’t remember? Not at all?”

“Should I?” Jaskier asks weakly, licking his lips as his anxiety begins to grow. There’s disappointment audible in her voice and he doesn’t know how to interpret that. He hopes that he hasn’t forgotten some crucial development between the two of them. He looks to her imploringly, a silent plea. She answers.

“You brought yourself to completion by humping Geralt’s leg. Like a dog. In public.” Yennefer tells him plainly, no sugarcoating, no dramatics. It’s just stated simply, like a fact that she has no personal takeaway from. He stares at her for a long moment, wondering if she’s somehow joking. And then, when the answer is apparent, he stares for longer hoping that he’s wrong. Eventually, he’s forced to accept it.

“ _Fuck._ ”

“It wasn’t exactly the fabled first time I’m sure you were hoping for, but Geralt thinks it was because you were so drunk you couldn’t tell him apart from a stranger, so no harm done.” Yennefer tells him, as she slides in front of the mirror and begins applying her lipstick. Jaskier glares at the back of her head, his heart hammering away in his chest. He jumps up from the bed, ignoring the uncomfortable shift of his soiled clothes. 

“No harm done?! Yennefer, lots of harm done!” He hisses, marching up to stand behind her and loom behind her in the mirror’s reflective surface. She catches his gaze in the glass, scowls like he’s causing a ruckus for no reason at all. “And you _let_ this happen?”

“I was drunk too, need I remind you?” She scoffs at him, reaching for the powder and applying a light layer to her face. He continues to gape at her, disbelieving that she would be so dismissive of this. It isn’t a funny mistake that they’ll all be able to laugh around in the future, it’s a relationship-altering kind of thing. Geralt will never look at him the same again. “Besides, it was sort-of endearing.”

“Endearing?!”

“You looked like you were having a religious experience, completely enraptured.” Yennefer tells him, spinning around in her seat to face him properly. She leans forward into his space, stares up the line of his torso at him. There’s something devious sparking in her gaze. Damn it. “And Geralt… oh, his face was priceless. I’ll never forget it for as long as I live.”

Jaskier winces slightly as that blow lands. He knows that she means well enough, or well, at least doesn’t mean to cause lasting harm. But this is a very sensitive topic for him and the idea of embarrassing himself in front of Geralt is far worse than she seems to understand. This is his nightmare.

“Disgusted?” Jaskier garners, shoulders slumping as he slides onto the bench next to her. She turns to him, adjusts the fall of her skirts to something more comfortable.

“Not exactly the word I would use.” Yen muses aloud, tapping a finger to the pout of her bottom lip. He follows the movement, watches it come away smudged with red. “Overwhelmed, shocked, _aroused_.”

“Yeah right.” It’s easy to scoff and dismiss that as untrue, he doesn’t even need to question it. There’s no way his drunken idiotic self actually managed to seduce Geralt better than his sober self had in over a decade. It just isn’t possible and he refuses to even entertain the idea it might be. Him, drunken and slobbering, thrusting against Geralt’s leather-clad thigh in desperation in a fit of utter and total obsession… sounds more like nightmare material than fantasy.

Gods, and to think that poor Geralt felt pressured into taking him to bed afterward, that Jaskier wouldn’t even give him the reprieve of detaching from his body long enough to let the poor man sleep in peace. 

He really is pathetic, isn’t he?

No doubt witnessing his downward spiral firsthand, Yennefer draws a heavy breath and reaches out to wrap an arm around his slumped shoulders. Her hand is soothing as it runs up and down his bicep, grounding in a way, but not enough to distract from how crumpled he feels inside.

“Jaskier, pool your measly amount of brain cells together and think for a moment. If Geralt was truly disgusted by you, do you think he’d be offering to share a room with you for the foreseeable future?”

“He probably felt obligated to comfort me. You’ve said it yourself, he’s self-sacrificing that way.”

“So what, you think Geralt let you use him as a glorified sex toy and then cuddle him for twelve straight hours because he felt obligated to? Pressured into it? Jaskier, seriously, when has anyone ever been capable of forcing that man to do something he doesn’t want to do?”

“You do all the time.” Jaskier mutters under his breath, perhaps a bite of spitefulness slipping into his tone. He can’t help it, he’s already in one of those moods, the treacherous ones where he all but chokes on the amount of self-loathing he feels, as it rises up in his throat and paralyzes him. Yennefer would never understand, she’s more high on herself than anyone he’s ever met. Surely, the prized and perfect Yennefer of Vengerberg, doesn’t know what it means to be so pathetically insecure.

But the only problem is, Jaskier can’t even convince himself of that lie anymore. He knows Yen now, knows her well enough to consider her a friend, a close friend. He knows she has insecurities, fears, and weaknesses just like anyone else. She has a heart, she’s not above feeling anymore than Geralt is. He can’t paint her as some faceless villain in his story. He knows her too well to justify hating her now.

“Name one instance.”

“Going to the ball last night. You think Geralt would be caught dead around that sort-of event if you hadn’t bribed him into it?”

“Jaskier. Can I let you in on a secret?” Yennefer asks, a kind smile on her face for a change. Even that isn’t enough to reassure Jaskier though, to comfort him when he feels so desperately low. But he nods, decides the least he can do is hear her out.

“Mm.”

“He was the one that asked me to go with him as his date.” Yennefer explains, reaching up to cup Jaskier’s cheek, and he can’t tell whether it’s meant to be motherly or something very very different, something he isn’t ready to comprehend for the two of them quite yet. “Yes, he wanted me to hold his hand through the entire thing because high-society scenes make him uncomfortable. But he _wanted_ to go, of his own violation, no bribery necessary. And you know _why_?”

“Why?” Jaskier asks, curious despite himself.

“Because a certain bard wouldn’t shut the fuck up about how excited he was to go. And Geralt knew you’d go whether he went with you or not, and he wanted to keep an eye on you, make sure you were safe. Clearly, he made the right call, who knows if you would have even survived the night if he hadn’t hauled you out of there when he did.” It’s strange, how her words can be insulting but her tone so genuinely fond at the same time. It’s not unlike Geralt, in a lot of ways, but it’s strange coming from anyone other than him. Though, in the beginning, it’d been strange coming from Geralt too, had taken Jaskier a long time to realize that Geralt’s idea of bonding was through insulting each other.

Maybe that’s why Geralt and Yennefer bonded so very fast, they met and immediately began spewing insults at each other. The same love language, and all that.

“Great. So just another way he felt obligated to accommodate me.” 

“Oh, fuck off. He enjoys looking after you. Sure, he goes on about how he doesn’t want to be needed and doesn’t want to need anyone, but you and I both know that’s a lie. He likes having people in his corner, no one wants to spend their entire life alone, Jaskier. It makes him feel all kinds of important to know that you need him, that you appreciate all he does for you.” And damn it, it’s hard not to believe her when she speaks with such absolute conviction, seriousness haunting her tone like it used to years ago when they’d first met. These days, she’s more laidback, more trusting of them. So when she does speak in that withdrawn and condescending tone, eerie in its intimidation abilities, Jaskier has no choice but to really hear what she’s saying. “And you know _how_ I know that?”

“Whatever, Yennefer.” Jaskier says, because he has a death wish apparently, and he’s hurt and upset and-

“Ask me how I know that, Jaskier.”

“ _How_?” Jaskier grits out from between his teeth, glaring daggers in her direction. Her hand slides down from his cheek, grips his jaw firmly instead so he can’t turn away like he clearly wants to.

“There’s something I didn’t tell you about last night. Though he didn’t say as much, I don’t think Geralt wanted me to share it.” Yennefer starts, pausing and raising her eyebrows to make sure he’s listening avidly enough. But he is, because like all manner of horrible things, he has to know the _details_ of how he utterly destroyed his relationship with the man that matters most to him in this world. 

“Yeah?”

“He was hard as a rock after lugging you all the way back and then spending twenty minutes prying you off of him. It barely took two strokes before he was shooting his load all over himself. He didn’t say a word throughout the whole process, just sat there and blushed, like he was ashamed of himself for letting you work him up so.” By some unjust turn of fate, Yennefer holds eye contact with him through every bloody word, can surely see the way the words hit him like a punch to the gut. He feels the fell swoop of arousal through him, feels his cock give an interested twitch in its already-soiled confines.

The thought of Geralt, worked up and frustrated, all from Jaskier rubbing himself all over him and getting a little handsier than normal. It’s definitely too good to be true, Yennefer has to be playing some kind of cruel joke on him, perhaps she _is_ as evil as he used to make her out to be. Because there’s just simply no way that that really happened.

“You can’t be serious.”

“You can ask him about it yourself, if you’d like.” Yennefer suggests, dismissive and airy, uninvested as she rises to her feet and starts toward the door. Jaskier is left sitting there, clothes hanging loose from his frame, cock half-hard between his legs because if nothing else, Yennefer has certainly given him a fantasy to exhaust during his lonely hours so at least there’s that. 

“I don’t know if I believe you…” Jaskier mumbles, watching as she pauses at the door. She looks back at him over her shoulder, long dark hair flipping with the quick turn of her head.

“Listen to me. I won’t try to speak for what his heart wants, but it’s pretty damn obvious what his cock is after. If you’re happy settling for that, I’m sure he’d jump at the chance to give it to you.” She pauses then, lips quirking with a wicked little grin. “And oh, Jaskier, he gives it _so good_. You really ought to experience it at least once in your lifetime. I’m not such a selfish woman that I would keep that gift from you.”

“Fuck off. Don’t tease me.”

“I’m not, I’m just reminding you that what you want is within your reach. All you have to do is take it.”

“It’s not that simple.” Jaskier groans, burying his face into his hands. She’s silent for a long moment, and he doesn’t bother to look up even when she speaks up, in that suspiciously intrigued tone.

“But you’d like it if it were?”

“Obviously.” Jaskier scoffs in frustration, confused why it’s even a question in need of asking. He lifts his head then, gaze focusing on her, but she’s already turned to leave again. He stares at the back of her head, wondering what the hell she’s thinking right now.

“Okay. I’m going to eat.” She announces. Then, she looks back at him again, eyes dropping to the obvious outline in his trousers. He isn’t sure, but he thinks he sees another threat of a smile. “Enjoy your bath.”

\--

The thing is, Jaskier should know Yennefer well enough by now to know that she doesn’t ask stupid questions for no reason. When she takes an interest in something, it goes further than that. She has a tendency to meddle in matters where she doesn’t belong. And it’s not that he can fault her for it, when it’s a quality he himself has as well, it’s just a very different perspective to be on the receiving end of it.

After that morning waking up together at the inn, they set out into the wilderness on the path less traveled toward the next town. It’s a two week journey minimum, meaning Yennefer and Jaskier are less than thrilled, while Geralt is visibly excited and energetic. He’s been cooped up in the same inn for over a week now waiting for the night of the ball, he’s more than eager to get back out on the open road.

The trip starts out average enough, though Jaskier can’t help but note that Yennefer has demanded to ride Roach alone today, is stretched leisurely across her back while Geralt strides alongside Jaskier with heaving breaths. He’s not even bothered by the fact his prized horse has been commandeered so rudely, maybe because he’s glad for an excuse to work off his frustrated energy, but probably because he’s whipped for Yennefer in every way. Either way, he’s sweaty and he walks far too fast for Jaskier to keep up with on his much shorter legs, unless he wants to jog alongside him. Which he does... because he’s whipped for Geralt in every way.

So they spend the entire day walking side by side. That’s fine. Not a first, necessarily, but notably strange when there’s no good reason for it aside from Yennefer being too lazy to walk. Which, say what you will about her, she’s hardly the prissy spoiled type now that Jaskier knows her better, so it doesn’t make sense.

Then, that night, they set up camp near a river and all settle in to eat, only for Yennefer to pull a face and loudly complain about the stench of sweat pouring off the two men. Jaskier might snap at her a little bit, considering it’s her fault they had to walk the entire way in the first place, but she just scoffs at him and shoos them off toward the river. And they go without much complaint, because Geralt is fucking whipped, and because Jaskier… is a fool. Whatever.

And that’s how he ends up butt-naked, wading through a shallow river, with Geralt of Rivia. Again, not a first, but it has been a while since they’ve bathed alone together since Yennefer joined them on their travels all those months ago. He can’t deny that it feels different now, after not doing it for so long. And especially after the events that took place in the last town.

If his gaze lingers a second longer than it should on Geralt’s toned back and chest, or if he volunteers perhaps a little bit too eagerly to donate his expensive scented soaps to Geralt’s cause of cleaning himself, or if he maybe… offers to massage Geralt’s tired muscles despite the fact he hasn’t been on a beast-slaying quest in over two weeks now after their recent break and he really technically has no reason to need a massage… fuck, okay, can anyone blame him?

It doesn’t matter anyway, because Geralt agrees, so he’s the only one making this weird.

When they get back to camp, Yennefer greets them warmly as if she hasn’t been in a sour mood all fucking day long, acting out for no reason. And Jaskier is thankful for that at least, as he settles in on the log he’s sure he moved further away from theirs when they were lighting the fire, but the closeness isn’t unwelcome when he’s this cold and still dripping wet from the river, so he doesn’t complain. He sits there and spoons soup past his lips, listening to the quiet conversation, and eventually singing a few good-natured songs to raise the spirits of the crew. Normally, this results in a few boos and jibes at his expense, negative responses exaggerated as always… but tonight Yennefer just smiles encouragingly at him, and Geralt bites his tongue.

Then it comes time to retire for the night. Which, by all intents and purposes, should be the easiest fucking part of Jaskier’s day like it usually is. But instead, it brings with it a unique set of challenges.

“Where’s my bedroll?” Jaskier asks no one in particular, looking frantically through his pack. It’s the biggest object he carries on hand, next to his lute, so there’s no sensible reason for him to be struggling this much to find it among his belongings. No one answers him, and so he continues trifling through his stuff with very minimal results. Eventually, he’s forced to admit that his bedroll… isn’t there.

He’s sure he packed it. Absolutely and wholly sure. He’s never once in his life forgotten it behind and he can’t see himself starting now. He’s the most organized out of all of them, if anyone should have forgotten their bedroll behind it should be Geralt, or Yennefer even! Not Jaskier, who agonizes over his belongings, treasures them dearly. Damn it, his bedroll was the only one left without bloodstains on it!

He turns, stomps back toward the fire, then sits down onto the log from before. He brings his knees up to his chest, curling in on himself and appearing incredibly small. He sighs, long and hard, just to make sure everyone knows what a terrible mood he’s in. And then, when they continue chatting and ignore him, he sighs even louder and tosses a branch into the fire that pops and cracks obnoxiously.

Geralt turns to him first, eyebrows raised minutely.

“You couldn’t find it?”

“I must have forgotten it at the inn.” Jaskier reasons, though it still doesn’t sound like a believable explanation when he can vividly remember shoving it down into his pack. Something strange is going on, but he’s had such a miserable day that he’s not going to bother looking into it any further. He’s just going to accept the facts at face value and wallow in his less-than-stellar luck he’s been experiencing today.

“We’ll pick you up a new one in the next town. No need to sulk.”

“There is a need to sulk, Geralt.” Jaskier counters. “What the hell am I meant to sleep on? It’s the middle of spring, the ground is wet and muck-covered, and I can _hear_ the bugs crawling around in the grass.”

He’s mostly complaining for the sake of venting his emotions, he doesn’t expect anything to come of it, not when there’s so clearly no solution to his problem. He’ll have to sleep in the grass for a few nights, it’s not the end of the world, it just feels like the straw to break the camel’s back when he’s been having such an off day as it is. So, yes, he’s going to complain. He doesn’t care if it’s an unattractive, annoying habit of his, he can’t help it.

Jaskier is vocal at the best of times, but he’s doubly so at the _worst_ of times. 

And he has every intention of continuing to complain for the entire length of time it takes him to fall asleep on the cold, hard ground without a single layer of protection between him and the creepy crawlies in the grass. He even opens his mouth to say much, much more about what a terrible predicament this is… but Geralt speaks before he can.

Even more surprisingly, Geralt _isn’t_ telling Jaskier to shut-up.

“We’ll just have to make two bedrolls work for the three of us.” Geralt suggests with an air of confidence that he really has no business having. Jaskier’s jaw snaps shut, he hears the distinct muffled giggle Yen tries to hide behind her palm. Jaskier eyes the two bed rolls with increasing suspicion. He’s not looking forward to Yen and Geralt sleeping in the same bedroll, for the simple reason that they can’t keep themselves from fucking when they’re in close quarters and Jaskier will be forced to hear every damn sound as he lies next to them. Still… a little bit of non-consensual voyeurism is a small price to pay for a bed to sleep in rather than the dirt. It’s not like he hasn’t seen them going at it before.

He nods his head.

Geralt turns to Yen, stepping toward where she’s laying across her usual bedroll. “Yennefer and I will-”

“Oh no, no we won’t.” Yennefer argues, before he’s even suggested it. Jaskier groans audibly, Geralt reigns in his irritation with a heavy huff of an exhale. “Absolutely fucking not. It’s bad enough sharing a full-sized bed with you, I’m not sharing a tiny bedroll with you so you can forget about it right now. You’ll smother me to death with your weight and then roast my corpse with your body heat. No way.”

“Yen. _Please_. Be reasonable.”

“I don’t think I will, if being reasonable means spending the entire night burning up next to you.” It’s strange, seeing them bicker again after such a long stretch of getting along. It’s also strange because Yen has no reason to be being so catty, aside from the risk of mild discomfort and sweatiness as she sleeps. A week ago, if you’d told Jaskier they’d be fighting again, he wouldn’t have believed it. They worked so well together lately, like two cogs of a well-oiled machine, they hardly ever fought even though they were constantly disagreeing. 

“What is your _problem_ today? Stop acting so bitchy about it and just get in the damn bedroll.” Geralt snaps at her, apparently because he’s gone so long on her good side that he’s forgotten himself and what are and aren’t acceptable things to say to a woman like Yennefer. Jaskier winces as the impact of the insult lands, watches her eyes widen and then narrow into a glare that looks downright vicious.

“Well, I’m certainly not inviting you into my bed after _that_ , you prick.” 

“Last I checked, you were quite fond of my pri-”

“Oh, fuck off, Geralt, you’re not changing my mind by flirting with me. Your _prick_ isn’t _that_ impressive.”

“Really? I seem to recall you saying it was the best you’d ever h-”

“Guys!” Jaskier throws his hands up in exasperation, looking between them. This is a strange new type of fighting for them, but Jaskier can’t honestly say he prefers it to the vicious kind... because it’s a unique form of torture to listen to them casually discuss Geralt’s cock in front of him. “Can we please go back to the topic at hand? I’m exhausted and I’d like to know where I’m meant to sleep, so I can pass out and let unconsciousness drown out the agony of listening to you two bicker like an old married couple.”

They both turn to him with matching vaguely guilty expressions, though it’s quickly replaced by a set of glares the moment he mentions the word ‘married’. He’s never in his life met a couple so allergic to any mention of their romantic affection for each other. Surely, at this point, they must know that they both feel similarly for each other. That they’re in love with more than just each other’s bodies.

Though, come to think of it, Jaskier hasn’t ever heard them exchange _the words_ themselves. Not even now that they’re getting along so splendidly. And surely he would have heard it at least once, given he spends almost every waking minute in their presence. He knows that they struggled to say it in the beginning, both of them, but a part of him had just figured they’d worked it out in the end and that’s why they were so much closer now.

Have they… never exchanged those three little words?

Huh.

He’ll have to ask Yennefer the next time the two of them are alone together, because he knows better than to try and approach Geralt with the topic of heavy emotions, not without a three week notice in advance at the very least so the poor man has time to prepare himself. 

“Why don’t _you two_ share?” Yennefer says suddenly, and Jaskier’s blood runs cold, as he turns to her with a wordless plea written all across his face. She ignores it, grins cruelly at Geralt. “Jaskier seemed to tolerate the blistering heat well enough. I’m sure he’d prefer it to the cold forest floor.”

With that, she shrugs her shoulders and settles down into her bedroll. Jaskier watches as she pulls the covers over herself, not even glancing back at Geralt, who watches her with a hawk’s gaze the entire time, begging her to explain herself. Eventually, she settles with her back turned to them, very clearly intending to go to sleep before they’ve even resolved anything.

Dread settles in Jaskier’s gut like a weight. He knows. He knows Yennefer always gets her way when she decides to be stubborn like this. 

“Yennefer. Talk to me.” Geralt tries again, shifting closer to her and settling a hand on her shoulder, an obvious hesitancy to the gesture. It’s a commendable effort really, Jaskier is proud of him, using his words to try and fix things. But she just shrugs him off with a snooty little scoff. 

His olive branch thoroughly rejected and snapped in two, Geralt lets out a sound akin to a growl from somewhere deep in his chest, shrinking away from her with a deep frown engulfing his features. And Jaskier knows him well enough to know that he’s well and truly _pissed_ . “ _Fine_. Be that way.”

Yennefer doesn’t deign that with a response, just snuggles more soundly into her bedroll and evens her breathing out. Jaskier stares at her back, wondering if it’d be totally uncalled for to strangle her right now, or at least try to. He doesn’t think he’d get so far as to do any damage, just enough to drive his point home that he’s not going to tolerate her moodiness near as well as Geralt does. He’s not in love with her, thank fuck, and so he owes her no grace when she decides to act like a raging asshole.

Instead, he sits there glaring at her for so long that he doesn’t even notice Geralt has settled angrily into his own bed for the night. Not until he whistles, low and demanding, like he’s calling a dog. Jaskier looks at him belatedly, realizing he’d been zoning out to thoughts of Yennefer of all fucking things. Geralt is looking at him expectantly, bushy eyebrows raised toward his hairline.

“What?”

“Come here, Jaskier.” Geralt speaks the words one by one, with great emphasis on each, like he’s trying to communicate with an alien lifeform incapable of understanding otherwise. Jaskier has half a mind to glare at him, or maybe make a sassy comment, but he can also see the tired lines under Geralt’s eyes as he gestures him over. Toward him. Into his bedroll. With him.

“Um.” Jaskier’s voice is comically higher than usual, giving away his nerves right from the get-go, as he watches Geralt strip his shirt over his head. Leave it to Geralt, probably the only man alive that would find this mid-spring weather so suffocatingly hot that he needs to sleep half-naked. 

Jaskier licks his lips, trying desperately to coaxe smarter words past them. His mind is working overtime trying to find an excuse to get out of this, but his mind is a terribly one-track sort-of thing, and now that it’s on the course of Geralt’s muscular chest it’s hard to think of anything else. Praise Melitele, that man is unfairly buff. He looks like he was sculpted from marble by the most skilled artist in all of the land, every dip and divot chiseled with loving care. Jaskier wants to run his tongue over every last one.

Jaskier blinks himself out of his stupor when Geralt grunts at him in question, though his expression gives away nothing of what he’s thinking. Jaskier scrambles to his feet with an awkward chuckle, shoving his hands into his pockets. “You know what, it’s fine, I can sleep on the ground. I’ll construct one of those survival shelters out of branches and leaves, to shelter me from the weather and the cold-”

“You wouldn’t know how to construct a toothpick, Jaskier, get over here and get in the fucking bedroll.”

And, well, he has a point, as much as Jaskier hates to admit it.

“Alright, that’s settled then.” Jaskier mutters under his breath, mostly trying to hype himself up as he clambers onto unsteady legs and walks the short trek over to where Geralt is laying. It’s a ridiculous notion to think that he’d fit into the bedroll alongside Geralt in the first place. They’re only made for one man, after all, and Geralt very well equates to three men with his fucking bulk. Where Jaskier is meant to fit, he has no idea. If anything, it would make more sense for Jaskier to attempt sharing with Yen, though he has a feeling that that’s completely off the table with the mood she’s in right now.

And so, with his face aflame and his heart beating like a hummingbird’s inside his chest, he slithers into the miniscule amount of space on the edge of the bedroll next to Geralt. It’s a tight fit, impossibly so, and if he so much as exhales then he’s threatening to be pushed right off the edge of the sheep’s wool and into the damp grass. He inhales tightly, tries to make himself as small as possible. 

He’s facing away from Geralt on his side, but Geralt is laying on his back like he normally does behind him, arms tucked behind his head as he stares up at the skies overhead. Jaskier tries desperately to relax, to even his breathing, to not be painstakingly aware of the heat of Geralt against his back. It’s easier said than done though, and right now he’s the furthest from sleep he’s ever been. 

“Is this fine?” Geralt asks eventually, no doubt growing tired of listening to the background noise of Jaskier’s flighty heartbeat or his shallow, rushed breaths. Or maybe he doesn’t need his witcher’s senses at all to notice how unhinged Jaskier is, can probably just feel the way he’s squirming uselessly next to him, trying and failing to get comfortable. Damn it.

“A little cramped, but I can hardly complain when you’re going out of your way for me.” Jaskier manages curtly, steeling his nerves to risk a glance over his shoulder. Geralt is still laying in exactly the same way, observing the stars above. He does catch Jaskier’s eye though, gaze flitting over to his face. 

“Hm.” Geralt seems deep in thought for all of a second, before suddenly he’s the one squirming around in the bedroll. Jaskier gives a startled squeak, hand landing on the ground just in time to stabilize himself before Geralt pushes him into the grass. But then, blissfully, the pressure is gone and Jaskier finds that he has even more room than before. He settles back down onto the wool in confusion, and immediately realizes what’s changed as his back slots up against Geralt’s bare chest. 

Fuck. Fuck it all. Fuck Yennefer, fuck this stupidly small bedroll, fuck Jaskier’s traitorous heart, and doubly fuck his traitorous cock that’s threatening to harden in his trousers right now, and surely and wholly fuck Geralt of Rivia. Absolute asshole.

“Is this better?” Geralt asks, low and throaty, hardly more than a whisper. And yet it feels like something so much louder, when Jaskier can feel his breaths ghosting across the nape of his neck and raising the hairs on end in their wake. Any closer, and Geralt’s lips would be on his skin, and isn’t that a tantalizing thought to think about here in the darkness of the night?

“Y-Yeah, this’ll do nicely. Thanks.” Jaskier croaks out, voice sounding parched, like a man that’s been without water for weeks on end. A heavy arm settles around Jaskier’s waist below the covers, pulls him back against Geralt more securely, until he’s well and truly dwarfed by the man curled around him from behind. It’s comfortable, stupidly and unfairly comfortable, and Jaskier immediately finds his eyelids feel much heavier than before. He can feel the steady rise and fall of Geralt’s chest, deep and even, a grounding factor unlike any other. He doesn’t dare to try and speak again, lest he say something stupid and careless, but he does find himself humming a quiet song under his breath out of nervousness.

It’s a disjointed little ditty, something he’s been working on composing for a while, a new entry in his roster of songs featuring Geralt as his muse. It’s a grand tale of the white wolf... and his mate, the sorceress with a heart as black as coal. It sounds dire and melancholy, but it’s meant to, so it’ll startle the audience so when instead he sings praise of the sorceress and tells the story of how her heart warmed in Geralt’s hands, became reddened and swollen like the coals in the pit of a fire. It seemed only fair to compose the second-ever song written in Yennefer's honor, after his first had been such a melancholy thing.

He doesn’t exactly have the words for the metaphor yet, but he has the melody, so the rest will come to him in due time. It’s just a matter of working it out, tasting it on his tongue a little, and-

“Jaskier.”

“Yes?”

“Sleep. There’ll be time to sing come morning.” Geralt sighs against the nape of his neck, then drops his head against it. He curls in close against Jaskier’s back, hugs him tight around the waist. And, well, given that all the sound has been stolen from Jaskier’s throat whether he wanted to continue singing or not… he goes silent and lets sleep find him.

\--

He wakes the next morning swathed in warmth and security, and maybe just the barest hint sweaty. It’s a small price to pay though, and he finds he’s already getting used to the heat that comes as a package deal with Geralt’s body being plastered against his. He thinks he might even grow to like it. He doesn’t know what Yennefer’s on about, complaining like she does, this is perfectly comfortable and-

Geralt lets out a breathy sort-of exhale behind him, strained and heavy, like he’s having a nightmare. And Jaskier is no stranger to nightmares, a pang of sympathy aching in his chest. He moves to sit up, to try and wake him and comfort him through it, but pauses before he gets anywhere at all when he feels the subtle shift of Geralt’s hips against his ass. 

Oh.

Decidedly not a nightmare, then. 

That explains why Jaskier has been pried from sleep at the crack of dawn, before the sun has even risen, when normally he’s the very last to stir awake. 

A quick glance around the camp confirms that the two of them are alone, Yennefer out of her bedroll already and gone from sight. There’s no telling where she’s portalled off to, but Jaskier can hardly be bothered to worry about it when there are much more… _pressing_ matters at hand.

The weight of Geralt's arm draped across his stomach isn't enough to keep him pinned, but shrinking out from beneath it isn't an option unless he wants to wake Geralt and face the inevitable awkward conversation that would follow. His options are limited, but he decides the one that'll do the least damage is to stay where he is and desperately feign unconsciousness. He’ll just have to let this run its course, surely it won’t be longer than a few minutes before Geralt wakes himself up.

Ten minutes later and it's not run its course yet. It would seem that even in sleep, when Geralt gets that itch under his skin, there's no stopping him until it's been scratched. Witcher stamina is no joke.

But it’s not an easy itch to scratch, not when he’s getting next to nothing out of it, lazily grinding against Jaskier’s ass with layers of clothes separating them. If anything, all it’s doing is keeping him hard, keeping him amped up and on the edge, but giving him none of the friction he needs to come back down and let the lust slip away from him. And he’s definitely not gonna be able to _finish_ like this.

Well, maybe if Jaskier arched his back just right, pushed back into him a little bit and-

Fuck, what is he _doing_?! 

He shouldn’t be trying to think of ways to make it easier on Geralt, he should be trying to put a stop to it.

But… Jaskier has always been a glutton for punishment, and can anyone really _blame_ him for letting his impulse control wane when everything he wants is pressed up within his reach? Being offered to him in the plainest of ways? And surely, surely Geralt wouldn’t mind. He’d appreciate the help, surely.

Curiously, Jaskier presses back against him, meeting him mid-thrust. Geralt’s breath stutters and for a terrifying moment, Jaskier thinks he’s woken him. But then his hips start up again, flexing and rolling with more determination now, more calculated in the way he grinds against Jaskier’s ass.

The hard line of his cock is unmistakable for anything else now, as it fits nicely between Jaskier’s arse cheeks, big enough to feel even through their trousers. It’s hot and heavy, a tease of what it’d be like to have it for real. God, what Jaskier would give to be fucked right now, right here in the middle of the woods. He’d let Geralt have his way with him, wouldn’t even hesitate.

In a show of weakness, Jaskier snakes a hand down the line of his body under the covers. He’s half-hard in his trousers, but it’s quickly becoming a problem he won’t be capable of ignoring. He wonders if Geralt can smell it on him, the way the arousal is licking at him like a flame, cloying in the way it sticks to his skin. He must be able to, and Jaskier equates that to why the grip on his hip becomes bruising, Geralt’s arm shifting back until Jaskier can feel the individual press of his fingers against his skin, just underneath the hem of his sleep shirt where its ridden up.

He doesn’t touch himself. Not yet. It feels like crossing a line to actively seek pleasure from this when Geralt’s unaware of what he’s doing. As it is, he’s probably already crossed a few lines, but he’s not sure what he’d do if Geralt startled awake just in time to smell the cum drying in Jaskier’s smallclothes. He would know, right away, that Jaskier had gotten himself off to this on purpose.

“Well, well, well, aren’t you two having a good morning?” Yennefer’s voice is unfairly cheery as she waltzes into the clearing. Jaskier wants to hiss at her to shut the fuck up, to bite her tongue for once in her goddamn life, before she wakes Geralt. But he can’t. He can’t speak, can’t bring himself to move, can hardly even breathe. His heart is racing in his chest in a mixture of guilt and excitement.

A moment later, she comes to stand above them, lips quirked into a lopsided little smile. Jaskier stares pleadingly up at her, moves to sit up again and nearly yelps when Geralt tightens his grip in response, yanks him back against the hard line of his body and holds him there. His hips never once falter, hitting home against the back of his ass tried and true, with growing force behind each thrust as his frustration grows.

So instead, Jaskier blinks uselessly up at her, keeps perfectly still for Geralt to use to his heart’s content.

“Help. Me.” Jaskier mouths at her, trying to be quiet about it. She lifts a single eyebrow in question, then kneels in the dirt in front of him. She reaches a hand out and settles it on his face, cupping his cheek with startling gentleness. His eyes flutter closed, embarrassed to be seen like this, flustered and damningly aroused from a little bit of dry-humping. He hasn’t even been able to touch his cock, not really, this is all from the simple knowledge that Geralt wants him, even if only in sleep.

When his eyes open again, they’re wide and blown-out with lust, because Geralt has just buried his face into the nape of his neck and _growled_ his approval. It’s a primal, pleased sort-of sound, almost animal in nature as Geralt chases his finish. Above them, Yennefer chuckles, eyes flashing with an obvious level of amusement as she watches Geralt writhe against him.

She turns back to Jaskier, still grinning.

“You’re. Welcome.” She states plainly, reaching behind herself. And there, held in her flimsy and disinterested grip, is Jaskier’s beloved bedroll. His jaw drops and he almost makes an audible sound of outrage, perhaps a shout, but he catches himself. Geralt is grunting now, punched-out noises, as he breathes fast and hard into Jaskier’s hair.

“You fucking witch. You did this on purpose! I swear, just as soon as I get out of his hold I’m going to-”

“Shh, you’ll wake him.” Yennefer puts a stop to his angry muttering with a single finger pressed to the pout of his bottom lip. Strangely, he finds himself going obediently quiet, eyes wide and shellshocked, caught between the hurricane in her eyes and the grounding weight of Geralt against his back. Her touch lingers, trails across his face, finger tracing idly over his cheekbone. “It’d be a shame to steal him from such a lovely dream, wouldn’t it?”

“He’s probably dreaming of _you_.” Jaskier manages through his teeth, cheeks flushed a deep pink. He’s not sure what to make of this. She doesn’t look upset with him for indulging as much as he has, and she certainly isn’t making any effort to pry the two of them apart. Even though she’s said as much a few times now, he can’t wrap his head around why she’s rooting for him, actively encouraging him to sleep with the man she loves. Up until now, he’d thought it might be a joke. If he wanted to stretch the truth, he could tell himself it was just a kink, a fantasy she was toying with and longing to see played out.

But this, this is something very different.

Her eyes are dark and intrigued, pooling with lust as she watches him squirm. 

But more than that, there’s a smile on her lips, something fond in the way she touches his face.

Jaskier furrows his eyebrows together in confusion, but before he can question it, Geralt lets out a moan against his neck and all rational thought leaves him. In its wake, he’s left a horny puddle, his cock now aching against the confines of his trousers. He feels Geralt’s sharp inhale against his skin, nostrils no doubt flaring as he scents him. He’s done it before, mid-conversation when he wants a better understanding of what Jaskier is feeling, or when he’s trying to locate Jaskier fast in a crowd. It’s never been like this though, Geralt’s face pressed into his skin, breathing ragged and heavy.

“I wouldn’t bet on the dream being about _me_ , not when he’s inhaling _your_ scent by the lungful like a man starved. I’d say he knows very well who is giving his body pleasure right now, asleep or not.” Yen comments, hand sliding into Jaskier’s hair and running through the silky strands of it. It’s an almost absentminded touch as she studies his face, completely invested in his every reaction. 

Jaskier blinks up at her, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth.

“You really think?”

“Oh, I _know_ .” She assures him, her teeth flashing in a glint of a smirk. “This is all you, bard. Look at what you’ve done to the poor man, reduced him to. Teasing him all this time, but never truly offering, always backtracking at the last moment before he pounces. Like a scared little fawn, aren’t you? Flaunting your spots, but never allowing him to touch, never allowing him to taste… to _take_.”

“I don’t-”

“What a cocktease you are, Jaskier.” She finishes with, firmly, ignoring his interruption. The words bring a whimper to the air between them and it takes Jaskier a belated few seconds to realize the sound came from him. He squeezes his eyes shut, too flustered to look her in the eye as he shifts his hand to the front of his trousers, palms himself uselessly through them. Her hand never once leaves his hair, petting him soothingly through it. “Shouldn’t you know better than to provoke the beast by now? Sooner or later his patience will snap and he’ll have you exactly how he wants.”

“Let him.” Jaskier blurts, without thinking. He hardly has time to regret it though, when Yen lights up into a smile and tips her head back to laugh. He catches himself grinning as well, toothy and shameless, licking his lips to wet them. He toys with his waistband for only a moment before his resolve caves and he shoves a hand into his trousers, wrapping his fist around his bare cock and giving it an earnest stroke. He curses under his breath, entire body shuddering. 

Geralt is still bucking against him, making increasingly more frustrated noises the longer he goes without any relief. If circumstances were even slightly different, Jaskier would feel tempted to shove a hand down _his_ pants and help him along as well, but that’s definitely crossing a line. All of this… it’s all crossing a line. Hopefully Geralt doesn’t hate him for it afterward.

His filter thoroughly depleted, he finds himself cursing as he works his own cock, jerking off to the same clumsy rhythm Geralt is thrusting against him. Unwarranted, more words spill from his mouth before he can hope to stop them. “Fuck. He’s big. Huge, even. It’s unfair, what use does any man have for a cock this monstrous? If anything, having a cock the size of their forearm is impractical for a witcher.”

“I don’t think it’s a witcher thing, I think it’s all Geralt.” Yen muses, twirling a strand of chestnut hair around her pointer finger. Jaskier leans up into her touch, eyelids fluttering. “Just wait until you get it inside you. You’ll rethink your definition of huge.”

“But it’s good?” 

“So good, once you’ve had him you’ll never want for another.” She reassures him, with such confidence that it makes his entire being ache with longing. “He loves like a champion, like a warrior, like a man worshipping a god… but he _fucks_ like an animal, like the wolf he is.”

A full-body shiver wracks his frame at the thought.

He’d always known that Geralt was a skilled lover, practiced in the art of inducing ecstasy in all his partners. Jaskier had overheard him with women before, heard the way they sang for him, like well-tuned instruments being played by experienced hands. There were even a few times Jaskier had lain with whores that had one shared a bed with the one and only Geralt of Rivia, and he’d gotten off more on their retellings of Geralt in bed than the touch he was paying them for. Gods, how he’d fantasized. 

“You have the audacity to call _me_ a cocktease.”

“I think he’s getting close.” Yennefer observes, changing the topic effortlessly. Jaskier stiffens, squirms a bit with the desire to look back over his shoulder and see Geralt, see what Yennefer is seeing in him that would make her figure as much. He can’t though, not without disturbing Geralt, where he’s panting open-mouthed and slack-jawed against his neck. So he’s forced to imagine it for himself.

Or better yet, get Yennefer to describe it to him in that pretty voice of hers.

“Yeah?”

“Mm. He’s gonna come all over himself because of you, make a mess of his breeches. How does it feel to have that power over a witcher, to make him finish without even getting his clothes off?” She hums, and even that has Jaskier’s cock twitching against his palm, leaking pre-cum across his knuckles obscenely. His hand must be a blur now as it desperately works his cock, flying over the length of it fast enough to border on the edge of painful. It’s too much, but that’s exactly how he knows it would be if Geralt were really the one touching him, and so he can’t help but indulge the fantasy. 

“How can you know?”

“He has his tells. The way his eyebrows lift a little bit toward his hairline, like he’s shocked by how good he feels or something, after being furrowed for days on end with that sour look he’s always wearing. He blushes too, gets pink high on his cheek when he’s about to come. But more than anything else, it’s the way he sounds. He starts out quiet, gets loud and grunts the whole way through it, but when he’s actually approaching his finish… he gets quiet again. Like he’s holding his breath, totally lost to it. The quiet before the storm.”

Jaskier bites his lip hard enough to draw blood as he thinks about it. He wishes desperately that he could see Geralt right now, see the pleasure playing out across his face, stare into his eyes as he gives it to him.

He’s so lost in his thoughts, the the only thing that draws him from them is when Yennefer’s hand finally disappears from his hair. His eyes bolt open, unsure of when he’d closed them again. A deep-rooted sense of desperation comes over him, as he looks pleadingly up at Yennefer as she rises back to her feet.

He already misses her touch, wants nothing more than to chase after its reassuring presence. 

Strangely, he finds he likes having her here at a moment like this.

“W-Where are you going?”

“Well, I can’t very well be here when he wakes up.”

“Wakes… up?”

“He’s not gonna sleep through coming all over himself, Jaskier.” Yennefer tells him, voice kind. Behind him, Geralt has gone quiet as a statue, even his breaths are less shaky and more concentrated. His hips are shifting in a steady grind, rubbing himself off with his cock slotted between the cheeks of Jaskier’s pert and round little arse. Jaskier can’t help it, he finds himself clenching down on the emptiness inside of him, wishing he were being filled for real right now. It’s been so long since he’s had the chance to be properly fucked, when once he’d been treated and taken care of on the daily in the courts of many a lord, treated like a glorified whore and a fucktoy, a thing of entertainment. 

Jaskier squeezes his eyes shut, grips the base of his cock tight to keep from coming right along with Geralt. When he opens them again, Yennefer is gone from sight, and panic rises in his throat like bile.

“Hey, wait, I-” Jaskier stutters out nervously, trying to rise up on his arms and follow after her. He doesn’t get far, Geralt’s grip tightens, and he falls back against him. The added pressure of the fall seems to be exactly what Geralt was chasing after. Even without looking at him, Jaskier knows the moment Geralt’s climax hits. He hears it, the shaky inhalation of breath, practically a whimper and so out of place among all the deep sounds he’s been making the whole way through. It’s a breathy, pleased little noise.

He also feels the way Geralt startles immediately afterward, body jerking awake in a stiff way that doesn’t feel remotely like the thrusts from before. Jaskier goes very, very still beneath him. He can feel the spread of wetness between where their bodies are still pressed together, how hot it is, how his own trousers are growing damp with it. God, Geralt really has made a mess of himself, for it to be seeping through his clothes so quickly. He may not be wearing his leathers to bed, but even still it’s impressive how much he’d have to have spilled to be so soaked so quickly.

Traitorously, his cock doesn’t flag at all where it’s resting in his very still palm, a blurt of pre-cum even beading at the head and sliding down the length of it. Fuck.

A long moment passes. A minute at least. Before finally Geralt moves, pulling away from him in resigned silence. Now, even more than before, Jaskier wishes he could turn around and see Geralt’s face, survey the damage that’s been done. He doesn’t know what Geralt’s thinking, what he’s feeling. Does he even know that Jaskier is awake? Surely he does. Yesterday morning in Geralt and Yennefer’s bed taught him as much, that he’s a horrible fake-sleeper even by human standards.

So Geralt knows he’s awake.

Does Geralt know he’s a hair’s breadth away from spilling his load like a teenager? From one stroke?

And if he does… is he upset by it? Angered that Jaskier took advantage of him? Disgusted by the fact he’s interested in the first place? Or could he be… intrigued? The gears in his mind rapidly turning, coming to the obvious conclusion that Jaskier is attracted to him, wants him, that Geralt can _have_ him. Oh, Geralt can have him any way he bloody well wants him.

“ _Jaskier?_ ” Geralt says suddenly, his voice gruff from sleep, a rumble in his throat. 

“H-Hey, Geralt.” Jaskier croaks out, silently cursing himself for how transparent he is. He rolls his shoulders, moves as if to stretch, then thinks abruptly better of it. Still, his hand is on his cock, but he’s not sure he can discreetly remove it without Geralt inevitably noticing. Jaskier decides to act as if nothing at all is out of the ordinary, a foolproof plan. “Lovely morning, isn’t it?”

“ _Fuck._ ” Geralt curses, apparently not willing to play along with Jaskier’s oblivious act whatsoever. He sits up then and Jaskier can hear him shifting around, before suddenly the wall of warmth behind him is gone and replaced from a cool breeze of wind as Geralt lifts the covers. Even once he’s left alone in the bedroll and Geralt starts to lumber around their camp, Jaskier doesn’t dare to move so much as a muscle from his current position. “Where’s Yennefer?”

“No idea. She was gone when I woke.” Jaskier answers, honestly. Technically speaking, she was gone when he woke, and he truly had no idea where she is now. There’s just some time between those two statements that’s unaccounted for, where she’d been leaning over him and talking him through the guiltiest self-love session of his entire life. And that’s saying something.

“Hm.” Geralt grunts from somewhere behind him, not too far, but not far enough that Jaskier feels comfortable turning to look at him. That, and he can hear the suspicious lilt to the sound that almost anyone else would fail to notice. Jaskier really has been traveling with Geralt too long, when he can differentiate between every kind of grunt he gives in lieu of genuine answers. “And when was that?”

“W-What?”

“How long did you lie there and let me defile you without trying to wake me?” Geralt asks him plainly, his voice infuriatingly void of any emotion. And that, that’s the final straw before Jaskier hastily tugs his hand out of his trousers and sits upright, turning to look at Geralt in search of context clues.

But Geralt isn’t even facing him, he has his back turned, is staring into the wooded forest surrounding them instead. Jaskier stares at the back of his head, hoping that if he puts it off long enough Geralt will drop the question, forget he ever asked it. But the silence lingers in a tense sort of way, and it’s clear that there’s still an actual answer expected of him.

“Um… a while.” Jaskier offers, eloquently.

“Damn it, Jaskier.” Geralt growls out, turning to look at him with exasperation written all over his expression. He’s decidedly mad, but who it’s directed at and why is still a mystery. But there’s certainly anger bending up his features into something intimidating and mean, unapproachable to the highest degree. Jaskier shrinks backward, despite the good ten feet between them. “From now on, you keep the bedroll, I’ll find another means.”

And with that, Geralt snatches up his spare clothes from his pack and then stomps off into the woods.

Jaskier is left sitting there in the fallout, eyes wide and unseeing, his heart hammering in his chest.

\--

The next few days pass them by with relative ease. Whatever happened that morning doesn’t come up again. At first because it can’t, because Geralt is making a very valiant effort to distance himself and avoid Jaskier like he’s fallen ill with the plague. But then, as Geralt slowly relaxes back into their usual routine, it’s just a matter of Jaskier not wanting to shatter the fragile sense of normalcy they’ve just gotten back. Though, he thinks, it would be really really really nice to know what Geralt thought of the whole thing, if he’d been angry at Jaskier and why exactly.

It’s just easier to ignore it, to let it stay in the past.

Except… Jaskier hadn’t accounted for the wildcard that was Yennefer.

Yes, it was clear what Geralt and Jaskier wanted to do, both opting to pretend nothing had ever happened and move on accordingly. But Yennefer, she had other plans. Plans that seemed rather suspiciously the exact opposite of everyone else’s.

Every day, she finds some way to force Geralt and Jaskier to spend time together, whether it be a chore that would take two sets of hands, or simply excusing herself off to a portal and leaving them alone for a few hours. On the one hand, Jaskier is thankful for it, because he knows it helps them get through the awkward spell faster and put it behind them. On the other hand, he’s not so stupid as to not see Yennefer’s intentions, not after she’d sat there and held him through his last poorly thought-through horny decisions.

For some reason unbeknownst to him, Yennefer is actively trying to get Geralt to bed him.

Perhaps it’s a tease, or maybe she intends on following through and letting him have it for a moment only to expect repayment later, or maybe, least likely of all scenarios, she is rooting for Jaskier like a friend rather than a romantic rival. The specifics don’t really matter though.

Thankfully, Geralt seems completely oblivious to her efforts, so at least there’s that small blessing to account for. It’s only really Jaskier that feels the torture of her implicative glances, her expectant gaze whenever they interact, her not-at-all casual ways of forcing them into close proximity. She’s relentless with it and Jaskier can’t even lie, if it were anyone else, it would probably work.

But Geralt isn’t just anyone. He’s a mountain of a man, rooted deep in the soil, immovable unless he wants to be moved. If he truly wanted Jaskier, he’s had ample opportunity to have him by now, and so the obvious conclusion is that he’s not interested. And Jaskier won’t have Yennefer trying to force or guilt trip him into it, thank-you very much. Hopelessly in love with the man or not, Jaskier deserves more than a pity fuck, his pride is far too high to sink that low no matter how badly he wants it.

So he follows Geralt’s lead and simply ignores all the one-sided tension between them. He plows through the chores, spends the time they’re alone together practicing his songs and eliminating the possibilities for conversation as much as he can, and all the while he glares at Yennefer. He’s yet to get a moment alone with her since all this nonsense started, but the second he does he’ll be telling her to knock it off in the plainest of terms.

Still, the glares must account for something, surely she already knows how displeased he is with her meddling in his affairs. And yet, she doesn’t stop.

It all comes to a head one dewy and warm morning in the late spring.

Jaskier wakes covered in sweat and grime from yesterday’s hunt, after spending the better part of an hour tossing and turning in his bedroll and clinging to the fraying edges of sleep. Despite the early hour, he resigns himself to consciousness, because he knows he won’t be able to fall asleep again in his current state. He’ll need to head down to the nearby brook and wash himself clean. 

It’s not often he wakes this early, but when he does he’s usually around for the breakfast Geralt prepares himself, and that thought is enough to encourage Jaskier upright. Only, Geralt isn’t settled looming by the fire, roasting rabbit or fowl. He’s nowhere to be seen, actually.

And neither is Yennefer.

But, their stuff is all still present, so the answer to there whereabouts is painstakingly obvious.

He sighs, slaps a hand to his face and shoves his feet into his boots. Really, you’d think the honeymoon stage would wear off sooner or later, and yet they’re still sneaking out of sight every chance they get, anything to get their hands on each other. He supposes he can’t really blame them though, they’re both the most gorgeous man and woman he’s ever met, respectively, and if he were to have either one of them he’d likely never want to stop. Objectively, of course, because Yennefer is hardly the type of woman he’d ever see himself committed to. 

A raunchy and ill-intentioned fuck, perhaps, but it would only be a one time thing. 

He can’t imagine… _loving_ her. The domesticity, the care, the vulnerability that comes along with that.

The water calls to him, empty stomach or not, so Jaskier rises to his feet and starts stumbling through the underbrush toward the small stream. It’s not a luxurious thing, not something he can sink into up to his waist and truly relax in. But it is still spring, and the water will be cold, so maybe it’s for the best to just use a wet cloth and wipe himself down. They’re not far off from the next town and there he’ll indulge in a proper bath, with warm water and oils, soaps from every corner of the continent that he’s picked up on their travels.

He’s close enough to hear the trickle of running water when a much, much louder sound cuts through the early-morning haze of quiet blanketed through the trees. 

“Harder! Fuck! Give it to me harder!” Her voice is caught somewhere a moan and a shout, her words both a demand and a plea. It’s impossible to ignore the tremble to it, the tell-tale tenor of arousal obvious in the way the words are punched out of her. No doubt as Geralt fucks her hard and fast, knocking the breath from her lungs with every thrust. “That’s it, right there, fuck. Mm, Geralt, I’m gonna come. I’m close, so close, I-”

And that’s the precise moment that Jaskier notices them in the corner of his vision and realizes he’s already stumbled upon them without realizing. They’re crowded together against a nearby tree in the forest, utterly violating it as Geralt presses Yennefer back against it, her body lifted clean off the ground as he fucks into her like a thing made solely for his own pleasure. Her legs are wrapped loosely around his hips, giving them space to work as he pistons into her body, the wet sound of skin on skin audible even to Jaskier where he stands ten paces away. 

He watches with wide blue eyes as Yennefer’s hands slide fruitlessly across Geralt’s back, fingers curling and nails dragging reddened lines over long-healed scars. She’s vicious with it, clawing at him like an animal, but the low grunts of pleasure he gives in turn say he’s very much approving of the rough treatment. Hell, he’s pretty sure the tree is bent back at an awkward angle behind her, no doubt from the force of which Geralt is ramming his cock into her cunt.

Jaskier’s own prick gives a pathetic and longing twitch in his trousers.

He thinks he can tell the moment Yennefer comes, just from the way Geralt picks up speed and fucks her through it. She’s blocked from Jaskier’s view for the most part, behind the broad muscular back of her partner, but he does note the way her legs kick out in pleasure, toes curling as they slide against the backs of Geralt’s toned thighs. Her hands on Geralt’s back stop clawing, start making an earnest effort to hold on instead, as Geralt plows into her harder still.

Jaskier hears the sickening crunch of something fundamental to the tree’s rootwork snapping away beneath the ground, unable to hold up against the onslaught of pressure.

Jaskier wonders if his body would snap and break under the force of Geralt’s just like the tree, if even in his wildest fantasy he should dare to hope that Geralt would ever fuck him so hard.

Geralt readjusts his grip suddenly, hands scrambling across Yennefer’s hips and then hoisting her up further, moving her along his cock like a puppet. But, with the new angle, Yennefer’s head can rest against Geralt’s shoulder. And she goes to do just that, looking well and truly spent, her face flushed and her eyes blown out with lust… and then her attention lands on their dirty voyeur where he stands in the trees. Guilt and arousal pool through Jaskier, unsure what to expect.

But Yen doesn’t immediately react, aside from the subtle upward shift of her lips. A moan gets forced out of her throat when Geralt hits home at just the right angle, and then he’s relentless, abusing that reaction until Yennefer is very near the edge of sobbing for it, choking on her pleas and her sounds of pleasure as they’re torn abruptly out of her. And still, she holds eye contact with Jaskier over the strong slope of Geralt’s shoulder.

Then, slow as not to draw attention from Geralt, she lifts her hand away from her back and outstretches it toward Jaskier. A single finger crooks upward, gesturing him closer in a come hither motion. Jaskier’s breath catches in his throat, uncertainty keeping him pinned to the spot even as his judgment lapses.

“Fuck me.” He breathes under his breath, low and awed, completely out of his element. Of course, he’s an idiot, and though he’s barely even made an audible sound, it’s something more damning and distracting than his breathing had been. Geralt recognizes his voice as something not belonging to Yennefer, stands up rimrod straight and looks back over his opposite shoulder.

And there Jaskier stands, pinned by both the heavy uncertain gaze of the amber eyes he loves so, and the curious and playful stare of the tourmaline eyes he’s grown achingly familiar with. He has the distinct feeling of being prey at the hands of a pair of predators.

“ _Jaskier_?” Geralt growls, voice demanding an explanation, but void of any emotional giveaways like anger or amusement. Jaskier fidgets from one foot to the other, reaches up to run a hand through his hair and brush it back from his face. He desperately hopes that the outline of his cock in his trousers isn’t too terribly obvious.

“Sweet Melitele’s tits, I’ve seen rabbits fuck with less enthusiasm.” Jaskier says, aiming for casual, landing somewhere in flustered schoolgirl territory. Geralt quirks a single bushy eyebrow at him. Yen suppresses her giggle by burying her face into Geralt’s sweaty neck. “Sorry, don’t mind me. I’m just passing through on my way to the river, have to wash my nasty bits, as I’m sure you both understand. At ease, soldiers, I’ll keep my eyes above the waist. Don’t let me interrupt you, have at it.”

And with that, Jaskier turns on his heel, blushing head to toe, and starts back toward the stream.

He’ll definitely need to dunk himself into the cold water now if he wants to will his cock back down before returning to camp, but he’s faced worse fates.

“ _Or_ …” Yennefer calls after him, trailing off. Her voice is light and airy, that sated and smooth element of post-fuck already lacing her words. She sounds all too pleased with herself, loose and amused. It’s trouble, plain and simple, it never means anything good for her to be that uncharacteristically happy. But Jaskier finds himself turning around anyway, looking to her for answers.

“Or?”

“You could _stay_.” She suggests, licking her lips, hitching her finger and once again beckoning him in. And this time he listens, stumbling closer like a man under a spell, though he’s almost entirely sure she’s not using an ounce of magic to draw him in. He’s a moth to a flame, entranced by her beauty, the call of her body and Geralt’s alike.

Geralt is still tense against her, his body rigid with discomfort, but if Jaskier lets his eyes wander he can see the way Geralt’s thighs are tensing and relaxing, hips hitching forward of their own accord just enough to be noticeable. Fuck. He must be close, about to spill inside of her, and yet Jaskier’s presence has him drawing it out and stretching his patience thin.

“Excuse me?”

“You could watch.” Yen clarifies, toeing her fingertips down the notches in Geralt’s spine, reaching down until she’s cupping one of Geralt’s ass cheeks in her palm. She pulls him in against her and he goes, gasping under his breath as he’s buried inside of her to the hilt again. Jaskier is a weak man and he finds himself unable to wrench his gaze away, but he does force himself to stop walking closer just before he’s within arm’s reach of them both. He’s not sure he’s strong enough to keep from touching them if he were to get any closer. “We put on such a lovely show. Don’t we, Geralt?”

“Cut it out, Yen.” Geralt growls, but it’s weak. It sounds almost as weak as Jaskier feels right now. He can hear the way Geralt is struggling to form words, to concentrate on anything other than how badly he wants to continue where they left off. Fuck her hard until he comes, filling her with his seed.

“Oh, I don’t think I will.” Yennefer purrs, writhing against Geralt. She doesn’t have near the leverage he would if he’d give in and go back to fucking her properly, but she has enough space to rock against his cock, making sure he feels where her pussy is fluttering around him. “I’m having too much fun.”

“You’re making him uncomfortable.” Geralt comments, eyes raking over Jaskier’s disheveled form. He has the mind about him to be embarrassed, hand falling to cover where his cock is straining against thin fabric. Geralt follows the movement wordlessly, then turns back to Yennefer. “Stop teasing him.”

“You’re serious? You honestly want me to stop?” Yennefer asks suddenly, shock coloring her words.

“Obviously.” Geralt grits out through clenched teeth.

Jaskier bites his lip, his heart caught in his throat. He has no idea what’s happening. It’s not entirely unlike a few weeks ago, when Geralt had gotten off against him in his sleep. But this time he’s awake, very much awake, and Jaskier still doesn’t have any of the answers he needs to know what’s happening. 

“Geralt, what could _possibly_ be giving you the idea that he’s uncomfortable?” Yen asks, but her voice isn’t near as playful now. It’s genuine, as they talk about him like he isn’t standing right there, listening to every word they say. It’s a private kind of conversation, couples setting boundaries for each other, and yet he’s still there. Witnessing it when he has no right to. Unable to leave.

She reaches up to brush Geralt’s hair back from his face, no doubt messed by her own hands with the way it stands on end in every which direction. Geralt leans into her touch, body relaxing against hers, into hers. His hand follows the curves of her body, settling on one of her breasts, palming it idly and tweaking one of her nipples where it stands pebbled and hard against the cool air. 

Jaskier watches, shaking in the spot with the temptation to join them, to get his hands on her as well, to get his hands on Geralt. He wants, so very badly, he’s feverish with it. He’s terrified to take another step though, to risk the rejection that would absolutely brutalize him. There’s much more at stake here than just getting his rocks off with a pair of warm and attractive bodies. These people are his home, he can’t imagine being without either of them after spending so long traveling together.

If he made a move only to be rejected, the shame of it would be unsurmountable, and he isn’t sure their relationship could ever recover from it. If Geralt knew all the ways Jaskier wanted him, it could be enough to drive him away forever. He’s never been particularly open to discussing emotions more than what is strictly necessary. If Jaskier complicated this, made it known how mixed and confusing his feelings really are, then who’s to say Geralt would be bothered with the extra effort to navigate it?

He has more important things to worry about than a bard being in love with him, after all.

“I can _smell_ the anxiety pouring off of him.” Geralt admits finally, once again talking as if Jaskier isn’t there, clinging to every word like a lifeline. Geralt leans into Yennefer, buries his face into the crook of her neck, his hand sliding exploratively across her skin as he gets bored of playing with her tits. He dives his hand down between them, and though it’s out of Jaskier’s sight, there’s no missing the way Yennefer gasps as he slides a finger inside her alongside his cock.

“Geralt!”

“He’s _not interested_ , Yennefer.” Geralt sounds distinctly annoyed now, as he starts to fuck her again, with slow and calculated rolls of his hips into her willing body. She scrambles against him, trying to find purchase against the steady assault, but he shushes her and pins her harder to the tree, forcing her to take it however he gives it. Jaskier’s cock drools idly in his britches. “His heart is hammering like it might give out. His breathing is unsteady, choked off. He’s sweating buckets. Hell, even without the heightened senses, I know enough to be able to see the hesitancy in his expression. He looks seconds away from bolting. I’m not stupid.”

“And what of the arousal? Can’t you smell that too? Or at the very least _see_ it, given his cock is hard enough to tent those stupidly tight silk trousers of his?” Yennefer pants her response, managing the odd word between desperate gulps of air. She looks overwhelmed, eyes rolled back into her head even as she tries to hold a steady conversation. Not for the first time, Jaskier wishes he could find the courage to speak up, rather than be a bystander to this discussion of his own wants and desires.

“Yes, I’m aware.” 

“Then surely you must know that he _wants it_?” Yen counters, reaches up to grab a fistful of Geralt’s hair and give it a hard yank. He lets out a roar, very plainly displeased, and then descends upon her neck. He buries her face into her smooth skin, bites and kisses across it, until it’s lavished with purpling bruises and raising flushed redness. “He wants us, Geralt. He’s so hard it must hurt. Isn’t it cruel to deny him? He’s only human, after all.”

“No.” Geralt growls out, with startling finality. Jaskier shudders at it, at the bluntness of the opposal, the way it’s all but a rejection in plain terms. His heart shatters in his chest. But before he can take off in shame, Geralt continues, coming back to himself enough to speak evenly. “Jaskier would get turned on by a tree if it grew in an hourglass shape. Lust is not the same thing as consent. He hasn't asked to be involved in this, I'm not sure he would know what he was asking for even if he did. He doesn’t know what he wants, Yennefer, so stop toying with him. He’s only human.”

The way Geralt mentions his humanity is entirely different from how Yennefer does.

She speaks of his fragility as a reason to celebrate it, to cherish the opportunity they have, to make sure he indulges in the fullest whilst he still has the ability to.

Geralt speaks of it like it’s a terrible inconvenience he’s been saddled with, an obligation to attend to, a responsibility he’s shouldered by his own violation and taken it upon himself to protect. 

“Geralt, I-”

“Go, Jaskier.” Geralt cuts him off, his tone strict. It’s the first time he’s actually addressed Jaskier the entire conversation, for a while he’d been wondering if Geralt had forgotten his presence altogether, distracted by Yen as he is. It’s clear now that he hadn’t, that he’d meant for Jaskier to hear every word of what he’d said. This was the conversation they should have had three weeks ago, when Geralt stalked away from the camp with drying cum in his smallclothes, and Jaskier was left hard and wanting in the bedroll they’d shared the night before.

This was Geralt’s answer to the question Jaskier must have unknowingly asked that day.

“Yes, of course.” Contrary to popular belief, Jaskier knows how to take a hint, and when he’s truly unwanted he doesn’t press or pry. He just swallows hard and sets his lips into a grimace, tries to ignore the way the pieces of his heart are settling all the way down in his feet, sharp and splintered with every step he takes away from them.

\--

The thing is, after a conclusion as settling as that, Jaskier expects the topic as a whole to blow over. He expects Geralt to go back to avoiding him and he expects Yennefer to fuck off with whatever game she’s been playing lately. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get anything he’s expecting.

Geralt doesn’t even falter the next time they see each other after that exchange. Jaskier is freshly bathed and dismally settled by the fire, his stomach grumbling though he’s too low on himself right now to fathom eating, sick to his stomach with guilt and disgust. And then Geralt comes lumbering out of the woods, reeking of sex, shirtless and wearing his sex-related injuries like fine jewels. And then he just… sits beside Jaskier, asks him how he’d like to have his eggs prepared, because on his way back from his fuckathon apparently Geralt had stumbled upon a pheasant nest.

So… unsure what else to do, Jaskier answers. Geralt nods. He prepares the breakfast in relative silence, but it’s not tense. Every now and then he’ll look over at Jaskier and give him a nod of acknowledgement, the telltale sign that Geralt is in an amicable mood when he has nothing of value to say. It’s also sort-of a prompting, for Jaskier to fill the silence and make the conversation for the both of them, but today Jaskier is at a loss for words. 

Did Geralt not just brutally reject him? Call him out on his desires and then obliterate his hopes to ever see them fulfilled? Why the hell are they sitting here eating eggs and jerky together then?!

Yennefer joins them nearly an hour later, freshly bathed as well, dressed in one of Geralt’s shirts that hangs comically from her frame and eliminates the need for bottoms altogether. She grins at Jaskier as she passes by on the way to her belongings and he doesn’t know what else to do, so he smiles back.

And then, in the days following, things continue like that. 

Infuriatingly average, normal, just like they always have been.

While normally this would be a dream come true and Jaskier would be completely satisfied with the lack of change, he can’t help but feel cheated. It’s not that he’d wanted for things to change, but Geralt had taken that decision into his own hands when he addressed the unspoken between them. Things were _bound_ to change. Surely they couldn’t go on acting like two aloof best buddies when Geralt was aware of the fact Jaskier was in love with him? And even if he hadn’t jumped to that obvious conclusion, he at least knew that Jaskier wanted to fuck him, right?

Is that not something worthy of the slightest allotment of change?! Damn it, Jaskier knows he is _only human_ , irrelevant by comparison to a witcher, but surely his affections mean something at least! Is he really that unimportant that Geralt thought nothing of it? Thought it as fleeting and as passing as the seasons?! Jaskier has been in love with him for two _decades_ of his measly human lifetime, thank you very fucking much, and he deserves to have his feelings treated with acknowledgement at the very bloody least!

So maybe Jaskier is a little bit short-tempered for the following week. If the others notice, they don’t speak a word of it, and continue about their routines as usual. Geralt grunts and hums in exasperation, Yennefer torments Jaskier any chance she gets, and Jaskier tries desperately not to be caught staring at either one of them with that lost and wistful look on his face. He really, really wishes he understood what the fuck was going on inside those heads of theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BED SHARING!! BED SHARING!!! BED SHARING!!!! Listen, this fic is just a mash-up of all my favorite tropes, it's completely self-indulgent to the point that whenever I post a chapter I find myself rereading it and being completely INVESTED. I can only hope that some of you are getting the fun experience that I am out of this.
> 
> Sorry for not posting in a couple days!! Things have been busy busy for me and they're only gonna get busier when animal crossing comes out because i am a human being who knows how to prioritize the important things in life. 
> 
> OKAY, hope you enjoyed, please leave a comment if you did because I love reading through them the day after I post, every single one makes me so EXCITED!!
> 
> social medias:  
> @melancholymango is my main twitter/tumblr  
> @redgaysonly is my nsfw/fandom twitter


	6. There's no better love that justifies me

They stop at an inn. 

It’s a lovely little town, the locals are warm and amicable, they offer food and ale in exchange for Jaskier’s services as an entertainer. And entertain he does, until the wee hours of the morning, when everyone is too drunken to stand, let alone appreciate a lick of his talent. And then, with coin purses jingling with each step, Jaskier takes his mildly tipsy self up the stairs and toward the room Geralt had told him about when he grouchily went to bed before Jaskier.

Generally, he stayed up long enough to see Jaskier to bed. It was an old habit, likely from the very first time he’d stood watch over Jaskier on the night of Pavetta’s betrothal. Maybe he thought Jaskier incapable of looking out for himself, or maybe somewhere along the road he’d grown partial to Jaskier’s music and simply enjoyed watching the performances. Either way, it wasn’t often Jaskier found himself going to bed alone, hours after Geralt.

But tonight Geralt had been particularly unsociable. It started about the moment they walked into the tavern, when a bright-eyed blonde had sauntered right up to Jaskier and took note of his lute, smile playful as she asked him to play her a song. He didn’t miss Yennefer’s scoff of annoyance, nor the unimpressed look Geralt shot his way. But damn it, he was a man after all, and he had needs. He’d watched the two of them go at it enough times that surely he was allowed to indulge without judgment by now.

Besides, the blonde girl proved to be a bust anyway, when her father came to get her from the bar and hauled her off claiming she was far too young to be in such a place. 

So soon Jaskier found himself leaning over a table of rowdy men, strumming his lute and crooning humorous ballads to them. They were soldiers, with hair on their chests and muscles that would have been impressive if Geralt wasn’t sitting across the room with his own on display. Jaskier found himself sliding into one’s lap not long thereafter, still clinging to the idea that all of this was for the sake of a performance even when he felt the hard outline of a cock against his bottom.

That was about the time Geralt stomped over to him and gruffly tossed him a key to their room, announcing the fact he was retiring with about as much nuance as an angered bear. Jaskier had barely caught the key and in his haste, the bottle he’d been nursing had slipped from his hand. Geralt had caught it, and then refused to give it back, like an asshole, claiming that Jaskier had had far too much already. He cast a sidelong glare to the man that’d been supplying Jaskier his drinks free of charge all evening when he said it, too.

If Jaskier didn’t know any better, he’d almost say that Geralt was acting jealous.

Just to spite him, Jaskier had grabbed the man’s own drink and downed the entire bottle in one gulp.

After that, Geralt had handed his drink back and simply sulked off to his room, Yennefer trailing behind him a pace or two. And Jaskier had watched them go, swallowing around the lump in his throat, the desire to follow behind or call after them. 

When the man tried to get a hand into his pants just a few short moments later, Jaskier had eagerly skipped away from the table, went back to playing for the entire tavern to hear. It had everything to do with the man’s boldness, definitely nothing to do with the flash of hurt he might have imagined on Geralt’s face in the dim-lighting, when Jaskier dismissed him so coldly.

So now, hours later, he slips into the room as undetected as he can probably be. Yennefer does not stir, but Geralt’s eyes fly open like yellow flames in the dark of the room. Jaskier offers him a sheepish smile, tiptoes toward the empty bed adjacent to their shared one. A part of him is selfishly glad that Geralt held true to his word and got them a shared room again this time, albeit one with two beds. Angry and hurt and confused as he is… Jaskier can’t deny that he relishes the security of their closeness.

He strips himself of his clothes, clumsily falling into the bed and drawing the covers up around his shoulders. He’s not particularly cold, the seasons are changing and it’s warming up outside, plus he’s flushed from the dancing and the alcohol alike. But, it’s a simple luxury, sleeping in soft and clean sheets, one he goes without far too often for his liking. He indulges when he can, sleeps as close to bare as reasonable when sharing a room, and rubs his bare skin across the silky material. 

He sighs contently, yawning as he lowers his head to the pillow.

Though he’s tired enough to fall asleep despite it, he can’t chase the feeling of being watched even after he’s settled. Geralt’s gaze is a heavy thing, hard to ignore. The curiosity of why it’s glued to him so is reason enough for Jaskier to grit his teeth, determined to stay awake until he gets his answers.

“Didn’t expect you back tonight.” Geralt says finally, sounding hesitant. It only takes a second to find the dull inhuman glow of his eyes in the darkness. Jaskier doesn’t know what to make of the words. Nothing about it sounds particularly like an insult, but he’s not sure what else it could be.

“And waste the bed you paid for? I wouldn’t dream of such a thing.” Jaskier jokes, offering him a smile. A low rumble sounds in Geralt’s chest in answer, something that sounds vaguely amused, though it’s hard to tell in the darkness of the room. It doesn’t help that his eyes close with it, leaving Jaskier completely in the dark and guessing. Jaskier wishes they would have left a candle lit for him.

They lapse back into silence and Geralt’s eyes don’t open again, so Jaskier assumes he’s said his piece and fallen asleep. He rolls onto his back, stares up at the ceiling. Strangely, he finds himself missing sleeping outside on the cold ground, after growing used to seeing the stars shining back at him. It’s an easy way to fall asleep, counting them, looking for pictures among them.

Without their familiar presence above him, Jaskier closes his eyes and stares at the nothingness the backs of his eyelids have to offer instead. He evens his breathing, feels sleep beginning to pull at him, tries to relax into it. But the unsettling feeling returns, and even without opening his eyes he knows Geralt is watching him again. 

With a quiet restless sigh, he sits up and scrubs his hands across his face.

“ _What_?” Jaskier demands, bolder than he’d normally allow himself to be. He knows that Geralt doesn’t operate well under demands and orders, that it’s much better to let him come to you when he’s ready to share whatever’s on his mind. But Jaskier is exhausted, both physically and mentally, and it’s been weeks of dancing around the difficult subjects. Who knew what a unique torture it would be traveling with the two least communicative people on the planet?

For a few tense seconds, Geralt simply stares at him. Then he closes his eyes, as if he plans to go to sleep without even attempting to answer the question, and anger flares in Jaskier stronger than it has been in days. He opens his mouth again, determined to say his piece, when Geralt inhales sharply and speaks.

“You smell like him.” 

“Does he smell... particularly bad?” The words stumble past his lips unbidden, startled as he is by Geralt’s confession. It’s possibly the last thing he expected to hear. Of course he’d known that Geralt’s sense of smell was heightened, but he hadn’t realized he was also _sensitive_ to it. He sounds remarkably bothered by it. 

Discreetly as he can manage, Jaskier takes a sniff of his arm, finds it smells no different than it ever has, if anything he’s sure he’s smelled worse. But Geralt isn’t offering him anything in terms of explanation, so he defends himself. “I’m not in the mood to bathe before bed. It’ll have to wait until morning, so plug your nose and ride it out. I’m sure you’ve faced smells more putrid than I.”

“Not bad.” Geralt says then, without any hesitation. “Just different.” 

And well, that’s a pretty open-ended statement to make, isn’t it? What is Jaskier supposed to take away from an answer like that, that answers nothing at all. It just makes him more curious, more completely confused as to what Geralt’s problem is. If he doesn’t smell _bad_ , then what’s the harm in it? Geralt has never really struck him as a creature of habit, he’s highly adaptable and flexible, his line of work requires it of him. So why should Jaskier smelling a little unfamiliar bother him?

Unless… unless he _had_ been jealous earlier.

Isn’t _that_ a thought? Geralt, blood boiling, something primal and possessive dawning in his chest while he watches another man put his hands on Jaskier. Of course, for that to happen, he’d have to actually care about Jaskier in such a way that he would want his _own_ hands on Jaskier’s body. And he’d made it pretty damn clear that that isn’t the case, that day in the forest that they’ve yet to talk about since.

“Ah, yes, I’m sure you’d prefer I smell of horse and onions for the rest of time. Your two favorite smells in existence. Maybe add in a dash of monster innards for good measure.” Jaskier teases lightly, offering that easy out he always does. Even now that Geralt has annoyed him, hurt him, and confused him to the point of a headache. Jaskier will always offer to turn the serious things into a joke, for the witcher’s sake. 

But Geralt doesn’t offer his usual huff of amusement, or even an exasperated groan. He doesn’t turn away, he doesn’t close his eyes, he just stays exactly where he is with those imploring cat-like irises glued to Jaskier in the dark of the room. Jaskier swallows harshly. “Geralt?”

There’s the shift of movement and then Geralt is rising to his feet between their two beds, his outline barely visible in the moonlight. Jaskier blinks up at him, squinting in suspicion, and then scrambles away like a startled kitten. He’s so shocked, he nearly falls out of the bed on the opposite side, in his desperate rush to put space between them. Geralt is undeterred though, just continues climbing into bed with him, like it’s a perfectly normal occurrence. It may not be a first for them, but it’s a first unprompted and without reason, and it’s also the first instance where they’ve both been so underdressed. 

But Geralt doesn’t seem to care one whit about that. He plops himself down on the mattress and covers himself with the heavy blankets, sighing contently. And then those unnaturally bright eyes are boring into his again, from a mere foot away.

“Is this okay?”

“You probably should have asked _before_ crawling into my bed with me, for the record.” Jaskier stutters out, face aflame, breath a clumsy thing in his chest. Geralt’s eyes widen slightly, which in Geralt’s roster of expression is a substantial thing, and Jaskier realizes his mistake just as Geralt moves to bolt from the bed. His hand darts out and finds a scarred pale one amongst the linens, and pulls Geralt right back into his bed. And Geralt goes, though he surely could fight Jaskier’s grip with minimal effort.

He doesn’t go far, settling on the very edge of the mattress, but he does settle. Jaskier lays his head back down on the pillow, debates untangling his hand from Geralt’s, and in the end brings both their hands up to rest on the pillow between their faces. He threads their fingers together one by one, giving Geralt ample time to pull away, and he doesn’t. It does something funny to Jaskier’s heart, has it trembling in his chest with hope he’d only just snuffed out. Damn it.

“It’s okay?” Geralt asks once again, still looking spooked and still lying with far too many inches between them. Jaskier can just barely feel the heat of his body and that simply won’t do.

“Oh, fuck off, like you even _have_ to ask. I just meant it as a formality, something _normal_ people do when climbing into anyone’s bed. Yes, it’s fine, get comfortable and stop laying on the edge of the mattress like you need a quick escape route. And don’t give me any of that bullshit about sparing me your burning body temperatures, you know I’m not sensitive to that like Yen is. Just… get over here and _relax_ , for once in your damn life.”

“Hm.” Geralt grunts, and Jaskier thinks he finally hears that amusement he’d been looking for earlier. He listens though, shifts closer and relaxes somewhere closer to the middle of the bed. Jaskier follows his lead, moving in until their legs are just as tangled as their hands are. 

He grins something wicked as he runs his feet over Geralt’s bare calves, the only part of him that’s relentlessly cold even in warmer temperatures. Geralt growls somewhere deep in his chest, but makes no effort to evade him, and that’s the closest thing to approval he could hope to get.

“Though it does beg the question of why you bothered with an extra bed in the first place.” Jaskier muses, a few minutes later, when his feet are thoroughly warmed and Geralt has dropped his head to the pillow to make an active effort at falling asleep. He cracks one eye open at the sound of Jaskier’s voice, then closes it again the moment he realizes what Jaskier is actually saying.

“Go to _sleep_ , Jaskier.” 

And he does, because he’s not going to push too hard and risk ruining this moment.

Sleep finds him easily when he’s curled up with Geralt, basking in his warmth, relishing the skin on skin contact. It’s far, far preferable to taking a whore or a stranger to bed, despite the lack of sex. Geralt may not bring that kind of carnal satisfaction, but he brings something much more. He chases the aching loneliness from Jaskier’s bones, makes him feel secure and protected, wanted in a way that none of his consorts ever have. He _knows_ his body is desirable, he’s had many a lover tell him so, but it’s something else to have someone that knows him, truly and wholly, who still wishes to share a bed at the end of the night without the promise of sex.

The something else feels achingly familiar to loving and being loved, but he doesn’t dare to voice that even in the quiet of his own thoughts.

Come morning, Geralt is gone from his bed.

It’s not that it’s a terribly unexpected turn of events, but he can’t deny the way it stings to wake up alone when he can still feel Geralt’s lingering warmth, still see the outline he’d left in the sheets. But, he’s been dealt crueler blows throughout his lifetime, from Geralt himself as well as past lovers. He doesn’t let it get to him in the way that he might have once. 

After all, it’s not the same thing as being walked out on by a stranger, which would almost certainly mean rejection. Geralt is just the type of man that would leave your bed whether he wanted to or not, self-sacrificing and obsessed with The Path as he is.

He’s probably off scoping out the local noticeboard right this second, preparing to take on a new mission.

So Jaskier is quick to dress himself and head downstairs, keeping his eyes peeled for any sign of either Geralt or Yennefer. Normally they don’t leave without him, unless it’s to fuck, though he’d hoped they would have gotten their fill of that last night before he came upstairs. It was an ample opportunity to be alone together after all, with a nice warm bed to boot. 

Unfortunately, he finds the tavern just as void of his companions as their room had been. 

If he spends his morning slumped over the bar, dismally scraping porridge out of his bowl, his eyes darting to the door each and every time it opens… well, that’s no one’s business but his own. Truth be told, he’d gladly take Yennefer’s company over being alone. Now that she didn’t intimidate him so, they shared regular banter, and had inside jokes aplenty (usually at Geralt’s expense, fond and teasing, so they had to wait until they were alone together to truly indulge in them). 

But the morning comes and goes, and the afternoon finds Jaskier shopping around the small town in search of something to do to pass the time. Roach is gone from the stables, he notes rather early on, and he even stops by the noticeboard to find it littered with listings requesting a witcher. So all signs point to the conclusion that Geralt went off on a risky mission and didn’t want to bring Jaskier with him, for his own safety.

Nevermind that he apparently brought Yennefer. Sure, she could defend herself well enough, but Jaskier isn’t completely helpless either! He thought it was the principle of it, taking the people he cared about into battle unnecessarily. But if Yennefer is allowed to go, and not Jaskier, it seems it all comes back to his humanness again. A trait that he’s growing rather tired of, thank-you.

As the hours pass and Geralt still doesn’t ride back into town like a white knight, with apologies and gifts aplenty to earn Jaskier’s forgiveness… Jaskier might find himself growing the slightest bit petty about the whole situation. Can anyone really blame him? It’s one thing spending his life as a third-wheel to two beautiful people, but when they don’t even allow him to trail along behind them like a lost puppy and instead leave him in the dust? Well, he shouldn’t be blamed for what he does, or held accountable for it either.

Evening crawls around, the sun sets, the tavern becomes bursting with life once again and he plays for his adoring audience. His eyes keep drifting back to the door the whole night through. And eventually, a familiar face stumbles through it. It's not Geralt, nor Yennefer, but rather the man from the night before that’d bought him so many drinks and then attempted to shove his hand down Jaskier’s expensive silk pants with all the finesse of a teenager.

You know, the smelly one, that Geralt hated.

… Jaskier fucks him.

And maybe he fucks him in _their_ bed, Geralt and Yennefer’s. 

Is it his wisest and most clear-headed decision? No, absolutely not. But damn does it feel good, like for the first time ever he has a way of gaining the upper hand in this game they’re playing. Yen can continue flaunting Geralt around, showing off how she has him and Jaskier doesn’t, offering him up like a steak to take a bite out of but with no intention of ever truly following through and letting Jaskier taste. And Geralt can go on acting disinterested, then expecting Jaskier to drop everything and accommodate him whenever it suits his mood, crawling into his fucking bed and then leaving him _alone_.

Fuck them both.

And fuck _this guy_ , that Jaskier hasn’t even bothered to learn the name of before getting on his knees for.

It’s not a bad fuck, as far as hasty spite fucks go. Sure, he gets the distinct feeling that this guy has never fucked a man in his life, and Jaskier has to take the time to spell it out for him more than once through the prep stage. But once he sinks home and gets a rhythm going, he’s rough and overeager about it, pushes Jaskier down into the mattress and takes what he wants from him. And right now, that’s what Jaskier needs, to be brought out of his thoughts and relinquish control for a while.

He thinks he might spot a wedding ring on the man’s finger, but he pretends he doesn’t, secretly hopes that a scorned father in law comes chasing him out of town for bedding his daughter’s husband. He knows how it pisses Geralt off so, to come to his rescue over such irrelevant _human_ affairs.

They finish and thankfully, the man doesn’t even attempt to meander his way into staying the night. He gets to his feet and shoves his clothes back on, thanks Jaskier like he’s a whore that’s done a good job supplying their services, or maybe a particularly impressive horse he’s just taken for a hard ride. And then he’s on his way. He makes it to the door, pulls his coat on, reaches for the knob-

And then the door flies open hard enough to bounce off the wall with a sickening crack.

Ah, there’s Jaskier’s white knight, right on cue. 

Jaskier jolts upright in the bed, hastily pulling the sheets over his lap to cover himself. Fuck. He can still _feel_ the cum leaking out of him, running down his thighs and making a mess of the bed. Not to mention the distinct sting of the injuries littered across his hips and neck, from the man’s punishing grip and cruel fascination with biting. He knows how he must look right now, totally debauched from head to toe.

Geralt steps into the room and his boots thud heavily on the hardwood, mud knocking off of them with each step. He has an awfully looming presence about him, as he towers above the man that was inside of Jaskier not five minutes ago. He’s fully-clad in his armor, his hair streaked with blood, his face sporting a nasty bruise that covers the majority of his left cheek. It doesn’t help that he isn’t even making the barest effort to be sociable, yellow eyes narrowed in a piercing glare, upper lip pulled back to show off his teeth in a snarl.

Ah, well, it was a good fuck but not good enough to want a second one. 

“I-I was just leaving!” The man exclaims, hands flying up to protect his face. He’s suddenly a sniveling little thing, in comparison to Geralt’s bulk and confidence. Geralt gives a quiet growl of a noise, gaze flickering to Jaskier with plain disapproval, and then grabs a fistful of the man’s shirt. 

He cries out like he’s been mortally wounded, hands flying out to try and pry Geralt off of him, failing miserably with each flimsy hit. Geralt whips him around like he weighs less than a fly, and chucks him bodily through the door and out into the hall.

“Not fast enough.” Geralt informs him, and then slams the door shut in his face. 

Jaskier’s only just cum, but he thinks his cock gives a valiant effort to harden again at that.

There’s something about a man defending his honor, the raw possessiveness in Geralt’s gaze, the fact he’s upset by it enough to drop all pretenses of gentleness and all wariness of his image. He’s reduced to a more baser sort-of instinct, to protect his own, to-

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” Geralt turns on _him_ then, still wearing that furious expression, still looming as he marches over to the bed and slams a hand down on the bedpost hard enough to jostle the entire thing. Jaskier startles slightly, eyes widening as he pulls the sheet more securely around his body.

“ _Excuse me_?” 

“Don’t make me repeat myself right now, Jaskier. I’m not in the fucking mood.” Geralt grits out, his eyes dark with anger as he rakes them over Jaskier’s disheveled form. It’s clear now that Jaskier has wildly, wildly misinterpreted what’s happening here. Geralt isn’t bothered because he’s jealous that another has put their hands on Jaskier, he’s bothered because the entire thing is a terrible inconvenience to him.

He’s annoyed that Jaskier is wasting his time. 

In his eyes, even _this_ is an irrelevant human affair.

Of course he doesn’t care what Jaskier gets up to behind closed doors. Why would he care who pushes Jaskier down into the mattress, who he spreads his legs for, who he takes inside of him? It’s no business of his. It could be, if he wanted it to, but he’s made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t.

Jaskier feels something inside of himself snap. For the first time ever, he doesn’t play coy, doesn’t give Geralt the easy out and change the subject for him. He glares something fierce as he whips the covers back from his frame, rising to his feet completely bare in front of Geralt and stomping angrily across the room, uncaring of the weight of the witcher’s gaze as it follows him.

“Ah, lovely! Wonderful! Hello Geralt, welcome back! Fancy a peek at my cock? No? Well, perhaps it’ll make you think twice the next time you decide to bust down the door to our quarters without so much as a fucking knock, you blundering idiot!” Jaskier snipes at him, muttering furiously under his breath as he grabs for a shirt and pulls it on over his head. He hears a button hit the floor and the stitching tear with how roughly he tugs the fabric on, but he can’t be bothered to care. 

He goes for his trousers next, hauling them up his legs, uncaring of the smear of still-drying cum against the expensive fabric. He turns to Geralt as he dresses, seething with anger. “I can’t believe you. I can’t fucking believe you. What the hell am I doing here, in our _shared_ room?! Bloody hell, Geralt, why don’t you hazard yourself a guess? It’s not like the answer isn’t obvious enough, I’m sure you can smell the jizz in the air. Go ahead, snort it up, get a nice good whiff of it.”

“Fuck off!”

“No, you! You fuck off! You’re acting piggish and ignorant. It’s no business of yours who I fuck, or who I let fuck me. You have no right to march in here and manhandle my friend when he was just-”

“ _Friend_ ?” Geralt repeats, incredulously. And when Jaskier pauses dressing to look back at him, he’s tipped his head back to stare skyward, silent laughter causing his chest to tremble. Being laughed at is somehow even worse than being talked down to. “I don’t know how naive you are, Jaskier, but that man values you less than the wife and kids he’s got waiting on him at home. Friend is a far stretch of a word for what he considers _you_ to be.”

“If you know so much, tell me! What _does_ he think of me?!” Jaskier demands, throwing his hands up in the air. Geralt observes him slowly, before crossing the room in three long strides to loom over him. His hand settles on Jaskier’s shoulder, gives it a squeeze that’s just on the edge of being painful.

“You’re nothing more than a hole to stick his prick into, if you’d shot him down a second time he likely would have fucked a goat to unload his balls. You’re nothing special.” 

_You’re nothing special._

The words repeat themselves in Jaskier’s mind unbidden, over and over again, until they’re overlapping and becoming an amalgamate mess of syllables, of sound. But the feeling stays the same even when the words lose meaning. The feeling of brutal and cruel dismissal. Geralt really couldn’t have been any clearer than that, could he? That’s the blunt answer, the one he’s been waiting on.

“Fuck you.” Jaskier breathes, but the fight is absent no matter how he searches for it. The words are hollow and weak-willed, so uncharacteristically void of emotion that it startles even him. He stumbles backward, shoulders slumping, eyes stinging with unshed tears. He quickly blinks them away, refuses for this to be the second time he cries in front of Geralt that isn’t out of bodily pain.

But gods, can anyone truly blame him, when this hurt worse than all of it? Worse than the time the djinn had cursed him, worse than Yennefer’s magic, worse than being stabbed, worse than being bitten by that wolf, worse than the time Geralt had been a second too late and a slyzard had managed to slice his leg with its clawed foot. 

He still has the scar to show for that instance, a nasty thing, but he thinks Geralt’s words have wounded him somewhere much deeper, in a way that won’t scar over with time.

“Where’s Yennefer?” Geralt asks then, so much urgency in his tone that it nearly has Jaskier laughing through his pain, at the sheer irony of it. Maybe she’ll always be of higher priority to him, even when Jaskier is falling to pieces in front of him. Geralt’s eyes will always be on her and Jaskier will always be an afterthought, the sooner he comes to terms with that the easier it’ll be for him. 

There was a time, not long ago, that he’d accepted the way things were. But Yennefer had instilled false hope in his heart, and Geralt had only worked to fan the flames of it, so it’s not Jaskier’s _fault_ really that he caught himself wanting again.

None of this is his fault.

“Fuck if I should know. No one ever tells me anything around here.” Jaskier huffs quietly, turning away from Geralt and walking over to the window. He stares down at the streets below, lit dimly by firelight in the lanterns. He wonders, distantly, if he should leave. He could pack his things and go tomorrow, Geralt wouldn’t chase him, wouldn’t beg him to stay, likely wouldn’t even ask questions. 

He could head to the coast, settle down alone, start a life as a farmer or a barkeep. Who knows, maybe there’s someone else out there for him, someone that makes him feel even a shadow of what he feels for Geralt. He could lead a normal life, void of adventure, of the hurt and loneliness that accompanies it.

“You haven’t seen her?” Geralt presses again, and it’s just on the edge of desperate enough to be rather annoying. Can’t he just go and find the wench himself?! He’s spent the entire day with her, damn it!

“Obviously not! Her whereabouts are none of my business, she’s your woman, not mine!”

“Hm.” Geralt offers, a typical lackluster response.

And Jaskier has half a mind to be annoyed, even more than he already is, that Geralt isn’t offering him something more in lieu of explanation. But...

But Jaskier knows how to read him even when he doesn’t want to be read. He knows the difference between an amused grunt and an exasperated one, knows the difference between the growl of his anger and the growl of his arousal, knows how to tell when he’s not speaking because he can’t find the words and when he’s not speaking because he’s found the words and the thought of speaking them terrifies him. Jaskier _knows_ this utterly emotional inept bastard, damn it. He knows him and he loves him anyway.

“Something’s wrong.” Jaskier says, and it isn’t a question. Geralt grunts again, a complacent noise. With that, Jaskier’s heart begins to race and he forgets himself, forgets his anger and his hurt. “Is Yen okay?”

“Yes. She should be.” Geralt doesn’t sound convinced wholly, but he does sound like he’s answering honestly, so Jaskier moves on to the next most important question.

“What about you? Are _you_ okay?”

“I’m _fine_.” Geralt grits out between his teeth. It’s strained and tense, much more than his last answer.

“Said in the tone of a man who is absolutely _not_ fine.” Jaskier mutters, and then goes about trying to wrestle his armor off. Geralt doesn’t protest, just gives a long suffering sigh of annoyance and relaxes under his hands. He doesn’t make any effort to help, but at least he isn’t fighting him off. 

As the layers come off, shallow injuries reveal themselves. None of it looks serious enough to be cause for discomfort, though. Jaskier’s concern only grows when he has Geralt shirtless and he still can’t make sense of the problem. He looks up, his eyes finding Geralt’s, startling at the way the dark of his pupils have swallowed the yellow whole. “Talk to me, Geralt. I can help. Let me help. Please.”

“It’s a potion.”

“A... potion?” Jaskier repeats slowly, trying to make sense of it with the very minimal information he’s being willingly given. Geralt doesn’t elaborate, just nods, his jaw clenching and strained veins appearing throughout his neck. “You’re gonna have to give me more to work with than that. Is it something Yen supplied you with for your injuries? Or did you happen upon another sorceress on your journeys today? I know your affinity for them, wouldn’t surprise me if you fell privy to another-”

“Shut-up.” Geralt hisses at him, his agitation seemingly only growing. Jaskier bites back a smile, settles a hand on his bare chest, feels the dull thud of his heartbeat and furrows his eyebrows together. It seems faster than usual, much faster. Not that Jaskier is terribly familiar with Geralt’s heart rate, but this seems excessive given how slow his pulse always is when he goes looking for it.

“More important than anything else, are you hurting? Is there anything I can do?” Jaskier asks, biting his lip. Geralt averts his eyes at the close proximity, glares angrily down at Jaskier’s hand where it’s still contrasting the pale of his flesh, settled over his heart. “Just tell me what you need, I can take care of it.”

“Don’t say it like that, _fuck_.” Geralt growls, his own hand coming up to rest over Jaskier’s, dwarfing it with its size. Jaskier’s eyes widen, because if he’s not mistaken, and he rarely is, that growl sounds suspiciously similar to Geralt’s aroused one.

“... I don’t understand.”

“It’s a sex potion, Jaskier.” Geralt finally says, and Jaskier’s mind abruptly short circuits. He snatches his hand away from Geralt’s skin like it’s been burned. Geralt lets him, draws his own hand back and shoves it behind himself like he can’t be trusted otherwise. 

“Um, care to explain?”

“Not particularly.” Geralt mumbles, but Jaskier suits him with a look and it has him reluctantly offering more information. Now that Jaskier’s noticing the tells, he does look visibly flustered, in a way that doesn’t necessarily say pain. “Yen gave it to me this morning, said to take it in the evening after my hunt and told me she’d meet me here. She said that you had plans to perform for a local wedding and we shouldn’t expect you back until morning. Which is why I asked what you were doing here. It wasn’t meant as an insult, or a judgment, I just wasn’t _expecting_ you.”

“Oh.” Jaskier offers, licking his lips when his mouth feels impeccably dry. His mind is whirling over, moving a hundred miles an hour as he tries to make sense of the information being given. Geralt is hyped up on a sex potion post-hunt and Yennefer is nowhere to be found. And what’s this about a wedding? That’s somehow the most confusing part of all. “Well, this is the first I’ve heard of a wedding? Truthfully, I haven’t even spoken to her since we arrived in town yesterday. I don’t understand why she would lie, but surely I would remember if-” 

“Fuck!” Geralt curses loudly, interrupting him. He watches helplessly as Geralt turns around, heads for the bed (Jaskier’s bed, that isn’t covered in drying bodily fluids, though it looks like it’s about to be). He falls onto the mattress, starts to tug on the laces of his breeches. Jaskier averts his eyes, but he can still hear Geralt squirming around, grunting lowly as he works to undress himself. “I just don’t get it. What the hell kind of game is she playing at?!”

“Are you alright? Does it hurt?” Jaskier asks, his eyes still politely trained on the ground. In fact, for good measure, and because he doesn’t trust himself not to peek, he even brings a hand up to cover them.

“It won’t kill me, but I’m sure you can imagine.” Geralt answers him from across the room, though it sounds notably strained. And oh yes, Jaskier can _definitely_ imagine, and he is going to be _imagining_ for weeks to come, when the lights are low and he’s alone with himself and his trusty right hand. Fuck. 

“Do you mind? I doubt you want to be around for what’s about to happen here.” Geralt huffs, and Jaskier could protest that he absolutely does want to be around for what’s about to happen here, but instead what comes out of his mouth is an utterly stupid question he can’t help but ask. Maybe to see Geralt squirm, maybe because he needs more imagery for those aforementioned late nights.

“What’s about to happen here?”

“What do you _think_ ?” Geralt snaps at him, but it’s clear now that it’s not anger directed at him, that he’s just cornered and lashing out because of it. He’s uncomfortable, in more ways than one, and it’s not often Jaskier gets to see him like this. Not that he _can_ see him, because he’s still being a good friend and keeping his eyes covered, but still. “Without Yen around, I’m going to sit here and tug on my cock like I’ll die without, likely until the early hours of the morning. A damn cruel prank if you ask me, even by her standards. I don’t understand what I did to deserve it, but you know how she is.”

“I thought you two were getting along lately? You seemed good.” Jaskier comments, making a valiant effort to ignore the wet sound of what is without a doubt a hand moving over a cock, slick with saliva or oil or gods forbid, pre-cum. Surely Geralt isn’t that worked up already… but imagine if he was, if he’d been hard and leaking throughout that entire conversation they’d had. Fuck. 

“Spare me the relationship counseling, Jas, now isn’t the time.” Geralt manages to bite out, but the anger isn’t there, it’s choked off and forced out for entirely different reasons. Then, almost like he needs the distraction, Geralt steels his resolve and answers the question anyway. “I don’t fucking know. I must have pissed her off somehow, clearly. Or else she’s in trouble somewhere and it’s keeping her, but it’s not like I can go in search of her to help when my cock is as hard as steel.”

And then they lapse back into silence, so Jaskier has plenty of time to ponder over the hardness of Geralt’s cock, to imagine it for himself. Even without peeking, he can picture it. He’s seen it before, after all, in different circumstances. Hell, he’s even felt it, rutting against his ass to completion. In a lot of ways, Jaskier is intimately familiar with Geralt’s cock, just not in the one that matters. The one that’s both of them, consenting and aware, indulging in each other’s bodies.

It would be easy to do it now. To take the plunge, to offer to help, to crawl onto the bed and settle between Geralt’s legs. What he’d _give_ to get his mouth on Geralt’s cock, beautiful huge thing that it is, he can only imagine how it would taste. It’d fill his mouth so nicely, weighty on his tongue and soft where it stretches his lips taut. He’d barely get half of it inside before it’d be hitting the back of his throat, and from there it’d be a battle of wills to take anything more, but he’s sure he would win in the end. He wants to choke on that cock, take as much of it as he can, show Geralt how eager he is.

He’s so, so eager. 

The mere thought has him twitching in his trousers, cock drooling against smooth fabric, arousal pooling southward and making his legs feel like jelly below him.

This is such a cruel twist of fate. Curse whatever possessed Yennefer to be sadistic today and torture Geralt for no good reason, and by extension torture Jaskier. Sometimes, it seems it’s just a whim of hers, like she just wakes up and feels the strong urge to be in control any way that she can. On days like those, Jaskier steers clear of her, and sooner rather than later he notices Geralt with a limp in his step, doting man that he is. Nothing says commitment like taking a good pegging every now and again to sate your evil sorceress’s carnal desire for domination. 

But, well, Jaskier can’t help but ponder why she would lie about the wedding. It seems like a careless detail, but if she’d really wanted to have her wicked ways with Geralt all night long, she would have been sure that Jaskier wasn’t present for it. She would have warned him, at the very least. Unless… that wasn’t her intention at all. And her intention had been for Jaskier to be here all along, where she wasn’t, and fill her shoes in her absence.

Fuck.

“Fuck.” Jaskier vocalizes. He barely gets the word out before something soft hits him in the stomach and he stumbles, hands flying out to balance himself against the weight of a pillow, a pillow biffed with the full extent of a witcher’s strength that knocked the wind from his poor lungs. 

And that’s how Jaskier ends up with eyes wide and _seeing_ , gaze landing on Geralt unintentionally.

He freezes. His breath catches. His jaw drops. His eyes widen. He thinks he might make a garbled sound low in his throat, something that could be approval but also could be the sound of impending vomit.

“Why are you still _here_?!” Geralt sounds vicious, furious even, his entire chest trembling with the force of the words roaring out of him. But it’s hard to be intimidated when he’s still laying back against the pillows, thighs spread wide and one leather trouser leg still hanging off his right foot, his erection standing proud and undoubtedly hard as steel between them. Even now, aware of Jaskier’s gaze glued to him, his hand doesn’t stop stroking his cock with painful-looking urgency.

Geralt continues to glare, even as his hips rock clumsily up into his own touch, feet planting themselves on the bed so he can put those massive muscular thighs to work and fuck his fist in earnest.

“It’s not your fault.” Jaskier admits, the words hushed with shame. “It’s mine.”

“Of course it is.” Geralt groans, but it isn’t a groan of irritation, it’s a groan of pleasure. And it sends the pinprickle of arousal through Jaskier’s entire body, has him shuddering weakly where he stands. Even when Geralt speaks up again, in that gruff and disappointed tone, Jaskier feels undoubtedly turned on by it. “I swear, Jaskier, if you two have been fighting behind my back and this is some sick way to get back at you through me, I’ll fucking kill you.”

“We’re not _fighting_.” Jaskier offers, stepping closer to the foot of the bed and ignoring the way Geralt stares him down with growing suspicion. Jaskier makes a valiant effort to keep his gaze above Geralt’s waist, to focus on his face instead, but even that is sexual in itself when it’s flushed pink and screwed up in pleasure. Jaskier swallows roughly, tries to keep from imagining what it’d be like to kiss him right now, when he’s all primal desire and animal need. “It’s more like… a game.”

“Well, next time you decide to play a game together, leave my cock out of it!” Geralt is truly giving it his best effort to be mad, but it’s hard to take him seriously when he’s gasping for breath between every word. And Jaskier knows he should go, he knows he should, but Geralt isn’t telling him to anymore as much as just letting him bear witness. Plus, there’s a sick curiosity that has him desperate to see how this plays out, and it’s so obvious that Geralt is close to his finish. Jaskier thinks back on that morning, cuddled up with him in the bedroll, with Yennefer whispering soft praises and running her delicate fingers through his short hair. He remembers her listing off Geralt’s tells, the little shifts that gave him away when he was about to come.

The raised eyebrows that up until this moment had been scrunched down low over his eyes. The pleasant pinkness that’d been there from the start, likely potion-induced, but is only growing more prevalent now as his entire face and chest become ruddy with blush. And he’s quiet now, to contrast the groans from before, the grunts and growls. He isn’t even _saying_ anything, is just staring at Jaskier, as he brings himself off with his hand.

Well, here they are again, in one of these situations brought about by Yennefer’s meddling.

This time, Jaskier is given the unique experience of being able to _watch_ when Geralt comes. It’s the closest thing to a religious experience he’s ever had, if he’s being honest. Geralt moaning something that could be a distorted “yes” but sounds damningly close to “Jas”, Geralt’s hand stuttering and stumbling and then _squeezing_ at the head of his cock as cum shoots from the tip in thick spurts, Geralt holding eye contact the entire fucking time, burning amber boring into cornflower blue.

It’s a messy business, Geralt comes a ridiculous amount and Jaskier can’t even be sure that it has anything to do with the _sex potion_ he’s ingested. It lands in heavy streaks of white across his abdomen, his thighs, his knuckles. It stands out starkly even against his pale skin, even against the backdrop of scars beneath it. It paints the most obscene of pictures across the most beautiful of canvases, and Jaskier wants nothing more than to pay tribute to the work of art and lick it up with his _tongue_.

Worse yet, is he can’t help but notice that Geralt’s cock doesn’t even flag in the minute that follows, while Geralt tries and fails to catch his breath. It’s still hard, painfully reddened, veins standing out angrily and stretching up the length of his shaft. He watches it twitch in Geralt’s palm, already demanding attention again, and that’s the final straw.

Jaskier inhales, reaches down to readjust himself in his trousers. What the bloody hell does it matter if Geralt knows he’s turned on?! Apparently that isn’t news to him, apparently he thinks Jaskier would get turned on by a tree under the right circumstances, so he of little faith surely won’t be surprised now.

“Geralt…” Jaskier tries, fails, trails off nervously. It draws Geralt’s attention back to him though, back from whatever faraway place his thoughts had drifted to in his ecstasy. His gaze focuses, but there’s still something decidedly not sober about the way he stares at Jaskier, uninhibited and open, more open that he’d ever allow himself to be normally. Slowly, uncertainly, Jaskier repeats his earlier offer. “I could help.”

“Wh-”

“Would you find relief from the potion’s effects faster if you had a partner?” Jaskier asks, partially because he’s curious, but mostly just to make sure it’s clear what he’s offering. It doesn’t matter to him whether his presence will lessen Geralt’s suffering, he just wants to make him feel good _now_.

“Fuck off.” Geralt scoffs, immediately dismissive of the idea. But Jaskier doesn’t back down, or shrink away from his gaze, or stutter out an excuse or an apology. So Geralt is forced to linger on the thought, on the offer, to truly turn it over and consider it. He hums, undressing Jaskier with his lust-filled gaze not for the first time. “You gonna have me fuck you? While you’re still loose and open and dripping cum from the last guy? You _slut_ , Jaskier.”

That’s... not a rejection.

In fact, as Geralt leans back against the headboard and starts to rub idly at the head of his cock, it almost looks like an _invitation_. 

And what a lovely invitation it’d be, the offer to crawl into that man’s lap and make a home for himself there, to slide onto that massive cock that’s easily triple the size of the last guy’s. Even loose as he is, he knows he’d feel every fucking inch of Geralt sliding home inside him. He’d be sore for days, though he’s sure he could convince Yennefer to mix him up a concoction of the magic variety to help.

Jaskier takes a tactile step closer, around the side of the bed, and still Geralt doesn’t react poorly. His expression is decidedly hungry, and as he licks his lips and shows a flash of his teeth, Jaskier gets the distinct feeling that he’s a lamb in a _wolf’s_ line of sight. 

“Nothing strange.” Jaskier offers, as he settles on the very edge of the bed, his heart a flurry of movement in his chest so fast that each beat becomes indistinguishable from the next. He reaches a hand out, sets it on Geralt’s thigh and nearly recoils at the heat rolling off his skin. 

“Nothing strange.” Geralt repeats, like he’s trying the words on for size and finding them to his liking.

“Just a friend helping a friend.” Jaskier adds on, for good measure. He slides his hand higher, until his fingertips are trailing through coarse wiry white hair. He bites his tongue to keep from saying anything embarrassing, his gaze completely focused on the task at hand. Or rather, the cock at hand.

“Just… friends.” Geralt repeats him again, but there’s more hesitation there, so Jaskier is quick to elaborate even further.

“Purely physical, of course.” Jaskier says, with a sense of finality, and moves to wrap his hand around Geralt’s cock just above where his own fist is settled. But, in a devastating turn of events, Geralt grabs his wrist at the last possible second and stops him. Jaskier can’t even bite back his answering whine, all of his resolve crumbling the instant it looks like he might not get what he wants.

“Purely physical.” Geralt repeats him again, one final time, and now it sounds unimpressed. Jaskier can’t make sense of it, of what part of that was the wrong thing to say. He opens his mouth and closes it a few times, finds he can’t find the right words when he has no idea what they are. Geralt sighs, shifts away from him on the mattress, grabs for a sheet and covers himself though it looks like it pains him to do so. 

Jaskier wants to scream.

“What-”

“You shouldn’t offer things you don’t understand.” Geralt tells him, in that infuriatingly condescending and sexy voice of his. Jaskier stares at him, wide-eyed and wanting. Geralt looks away, his expression hardened and cold. Even before he says it, Jaskier _knows_. “Get out. Please.”

“Of course.” Jaskier agrees easily, doesn’t even try to fight it. He rises to his feet and hurries from the room, doesn’t look back even once. He’s not a monster, after all, and if Geralt doesn’t want him then he doesn’t have to have him. He’ll respect his wishes, he always will. It was only ever a pipe dream anyway, to think that he could run away from this, go to the coast and pretend he isn’t leaving his heart behind.

He can’t even leave the fucking room without his body protesting every step, begging him to turn back.

Though the tavern is still lively downstairs, Jaskier doesn’t have the heart to join in on the fun. So he bypasses it entirely, goes in search of a place where he will be left alone to nurse his wounds. He heads out to the stables and finds himself leaning over the door to Roach’s stall, idly smoothing his hand over her long nose. She’s surprisingly docile tonight, almost like she can sense the sadness in him.

He leans across the divider, rests his forehead against hers, exhales shakily.

“You know what the saddest part is, Roach?” Jaskier muses, hears her scuff her hoof against the ground in response and takes it as prompting to continue. “I’m not even angry at _him_. I don’t think I can be. It’s not his fault anyway, not really. The only person I can be upset with is myself, for repeatedly getting my hopes up, for expecting more than he’s able to give. It’s my fault. All of it is.”

“I swear to the _gods_ , if I walk in on one more person trying to hold a conversation with that damned horse I’m just going to have to assume it’s a magical being and no one thought to inform me.”

“Yen?” Jaskier asks, whipping around to find her standing behind him. 

The good news is she’s okay, she isn’t visibly injured in any way. She’s slouched against the wall opposite Roach’s stall, her arms crossed over her chest, her lips set in a firm line. Jaskier somehow knows he isn’t going to enjoy this exchange even before it starts. He sighs.

“I gave you the perfect set-up and you ruin it!” Yennefer hisses suddenly, eyes wide and wild, hair falling clumsily from the knot she has it tied in. “ _Nothing strange? Just a friend helping a friend? Purely physical, of course_? Jaskier, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re disgusted by the thought of sleeping with him and you were simply gritting your teeth through it out of the kindness of your heart. How do you think someone as thick-headed as Geralt interpreted that?”

“That was word per word what I said. A perfect quote.” Jaskier says, slowly. “You were _watching_?”

“Of course I was watching!” Yennefer shouts, throwing her hands up in the air for emphasis. She marches up and down the line of stalls, her heels clicking against the concrete as she goes. And for once in his life, Jaskier is at an utter loss for words. “I’d set up all the dominos and I wanted to see how they’d fall, there’s no shame in that. Though the reality was thoroughly disappointing, I can tell you that much.”

“You’re a pervert.” Jaskier accuses, his voice trembling with poorly-concealed anger. And when that doesn’t garner a reaction more than an indifferent shrug, he takes it a step further. “A _sadistic_ pervert.”

“Oh, we’re back to calling me sadistic now?” Yennefer laughs, laughs in the face of his anger, in the face of the pain she’s put him through. He shrinks back like he’s been struck, reaching up to run a hand through his hair and force it back from his face. He stares at her wide-eyed and unblinking, disbelieving of what he’s seeing. Surely she can’t be blaming him for fucking this all up so royally?! It’s her fault!

All of it, right from the start, it’s always been her fault. How dare he stand here and blame himself, when she’s the one that’s been feeding the idea into his head for weeks, the one that made it seem so close, within his grasp if he’d only reach out and take it. She’s pushed and pushed and pushed, relentlessly forcing them together, like two pieces of a puzzle that could fit if she simply bent them out of shape.

Jaskier was handling things just fine before she came along and started butting her nose into things! He’d come to terms with what he had, learned to be thankful for it, to never expect something more. And now look at him, mourning the loss of something that was never his to begin with.

It was hers. Always hers.

From the moment Geralt met her, he’d been pulled under by her current and hadn’t resurfaced since.

“Don’t you get it, bard, I’m trying to help you!” She throws it in his face, like she’s done him a great service and he should repay her for it. Ever the expectant one, ever the one pushing for more, always the one vying for control of everyone around her. Well, no more. She might have Geralt caught in her web, and maybe there’d been a time when Jaskier caught himself wondering what it was like to be caught by her and owned so wholly, but never again. He _hates_ her. 

“I don’t need your fucking help!” Jaskier blows up at her, then turns on his heel and marches for the door as quickly as his feet can carry him. He doesn’t want to spook the horses and he doesn’t want to be around her any longer than he has to be. He’s not sure he can stomach the sight of her right now.

“You’re clearly not making any progress on your own. You need all the help you can get!” Yen continues, trailing behind him, determined to get the last word in. They’re in the street now, with wandering eyes and passerbys watching their exchange, and still Yen doesn’t drop it and leave him be. She’s intent on destroying him, she won’t settle until his heart’s been reduced to rubble.

“Fuck you.” Jaskier spits at her, stepping closer and standing up to her, until they’re eye-to-eye and the air between them is charged with the chaos she always radiates. She doesn’t back down, just stares back at him, daring him to challenge her further. “Why?! Why do you keep doing this to me?! Rubbing it in my face when you know I can’t have it, not like you do?! It’s torture, you wretched witch! Torture!”

“It’s not _my_ fault you fucked it all up, I had the perfect set up-”

“People aren’t pawns, Yennefer!” Jaskier shouts in her face, and finally she takes a step back, something unreadable flashing across her features. If it were anyone else, Jaskier would think it was hurt, but he’s long ago learnt that she’s incapable of such a thing. “You can’t place us where you want us and force us together. It doesn’t work like that! We don’t exist to give you entertainment, to do your bidding, to act out your sick fucking fantasies when it’s convenient to you and only then.”

“I didn’t mean to-” 

There’s something there, in the waver to her voice, the shake of her bottom lip, the rapid blink of her eyes. But it’s something he doesn’t want to see, something he can’t associate with her, not now. So he turns away, sinks his teeth into his anger and refuses to let it go.

“I don’t care what you meant by it, you’re breaking my heart all over again!” It tears its way out of him, brackets his chest, reverberates through his ribs and up his throat. And it hurts, it brings with it a wave of pain so strong he chokes on it, doubles over and clutches his knees just to stay upright. He sobs, wet and broken, heaving for air. 

He doesn’t even care who’s watching. What does it matter? They all know. Everyone in the continent must, they’ve heard the songs, they’ve seen the light in his eyes when he speaks of his witcher. His love has been the laughing stock of a generation, the bard who trails after the white wolf like nothing more than a common puppy, his heart caught between the jaws of the beast. He’s a _fool_.

“I-” 

“Stop giving me false hope, stop offering to share something that’s not yours to give, stop pretending to care about me, just _stop_ .” His voice is quiet now, a wrecked and ruined thing, cracking and breaking like it does after he’s sung the whole night through. “ _Please_. I’m begging you.”

“But I’m not pretending!”

“Go. Take care of him.” Jaskier orders, pointing in the general direction of the inn. He can’t bring himself to look at her, stays exactly where he is, curled in on himself and hugging his legs for support. He hears her make an indignant noise, but before she can protest he continues. “ _Promise me_ . No matter what he asks or how he pries, don’t tell him why you did it. Don’t tell him my secret. It’s not yours to tell. You can take everything else from me, you can take him, but _please_ don’t take that away from me. It’s all I have.”

“I promise.”

“ _Good_.” 

“I thought I could help.” She offers, in lieu of an explanation, and perhaps an apology too. He shakes his head slowly, straightens up and forces himself to look her in the eye, vision distorted by tears as it is.

“You can’t make him love me back, Yennefer, not with all of the magic in the world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for being patient with my updates, and thank-you so much for reading. I hope you enjoyed it! I can't wait to start IN on my next witcher fanfic, I have a couple loose ideas but we'll see which one holds my attention long enough to actually get started as a fic. But of course, I'll be taking a couple weeks off writing when Animal Crossing comes out so I can properly commit myself to it.
> 
> Any comments are appreciated, I hope you're all staying happy and healthy in these trying times!! 
> 
> Social media:  
> @melancholymango is my main acc on twitter/tumblr  
> @redgaysonly is my nsfw/fandom acc on twitter
> 
> PS: if you read down to this... i just wanna reassure you that this is more or less the last of the angst. next chapter is them getting together, final chapter is almost Entirely smut. its coming, babes, hold out and stay strong!!


	7. There's no better love that beckons above me

“Will this take much longer?”

“Not long now. An hour at most.” 

“That’s what you said an hour ago.”

“Hm.”

“I’m starting to suspect you’re lying and you have no idea how long this will take.”

“If I agree with you, will it get you to stop asking or to start complaining more?”

“I’m terribly bored, Geralt.” 

“I’m aware, Jaskier.”

“You and I both know a bored bard is the recipe for a disaster.”

“And what do you suggest I do to intervene before it reaches the disaster stage?”

“Talk to me!”

“I _am_ talking to you.”

“It doesn’t count if you’re not _looking_ at me.” Jaskier mutters under his breath, perhaps a ghost of a pout on his lips as he sinks down low into the bushes Geralt’s been hiding in for the better part of the day. It’s miserable, the worst day of his life, so boring he wants to crawl out of his skin. They’re waiting on some water spirit or other to emerge from the lake, but Jaskier is growing less and less patient now that Geralt has forbid him from playing his lute within earshot. 

And though they’d busied themselves by washing and splashing around in the water for a good hour in the afternoon, the moment the sun had so much as started to set, Geralt had rushed them all out of the water and into hiding. Since then, no fun has been allowed.

Luckily, he still has his true favorite pass-time, which is annoying Geralt. It’s not nearly as productive as playing his lute, but it’s twice as fun. It’s fun when Geralt is in a bad mood and gets progressively more irritated the further Jaskier takes it, but it’s even more fun on days like today, when Geralt is content to play along with him. These days are far and few between, but they're not altogether rare. They're actually painstakingly predictable, in a way. When Jaskier is in a bad place, when he doesn't find himself capable of making his own entertainment, Geralt tends to... offer himself up. It's never said explicitly, of course, that's simply not in their nature.

But Jaskier has been traveling with him long enough to see the pattern. That on Jaskier's worst days, Geralt always seems to be in the best of moods. Not because he enjoys Jaskier's suffering, which had been the initial conclusion, but rather because he... wants to help. Doesn't know how. Does what he can, how he can, and tries to brighten himself up to counteract the rain cloud over Jaskier's head. It's terribly considerate of him. Frankly, it's unfair that he would ever expect Jaskier not to fall in love with him, when he does stuff like this without even meaning to.

So really, it shouldn’t come as a surprise when Geralt entertains his ludicrous rambling and turns to look at him, taking his eyes off the water’s surface for the first time in hours. He turns his head, focuses his heavy gaze on Jaskier’s face, and quirks both eyebrows up expectantly. Jaskier nearly chokes as it gives him flashbacks to Geralt’s face mid-orgasm.

“Better?” Geralt asks, oblivious to his plight. Jaskier nods his head rapidly, though he could definitely argue that it isn’t better at all, because now he’s panicked and overwhelmed on top of being somehow still just as bored. He scrambles to his feet, ignores the confusion that flickers across Geralt’s face.

“Change of plans. I’m going to sit over there and work on my lyrics. Let me know if you need me.”

“Alright.” Geralt huffs, turning back to his work without so much as a question. 

Geralt, sweetheart that he is, never asks questions that Jaskier doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t pry for more information no matter how plainly curious he is. Jaskier thinks he likes that about Geralt most. You know, aside from all the other things he likes most, like his rare and elusive smile, his secret affliction for fresh baked goods, his sculpted muscular thighs, his massive cock-

Jaskier stumbles clumsily back from the tangle of the bushes, to the nearby clearing in the woods where Geralt had dropped some supplies off, including Jaskier’s lute. Jaskier settles on a decaying stump and draws his notebook out of his pack, grabbing for his quill excitedly. 

This could make quite the song. Obviously not the water spirit, she’s yet to even show and Jaskier hardly thinks poor punctuality should be rewarded in song. No, instead he’ll write a song about two lovers spending the day together on the outskirts of a lake. Flirting, quarreling, indulging each other, perhaps taking a romp in the muddy lakeside beaches.

But before he even has time to put the quill to ink, _she strikes_.

She strikes now, the moment he’s alone, unguarded and vulnerable, just out of Geralt’s reach to save him from the clutch of her cruel and vindictive hands…

“Hey.” She says, settling down into the moss at his feet. She stares up at him, dark hair billowing around her light flowy summer dress, ruby eyes boring into his with concern, lips curled back in what could be a smile or could be a show of dominance. Jaskier glares at her, coldly, and doesn’t dare offer a greeting in response. Why would he greet her? That means welcoming her to stay, to continue talking to him, and he very well won’t be doing that, will he?

Jaskier hasn’t talked to Yennefer in eight days and counting.

In the beginning, it was difficult. Without even realizing it, he’d become familiar with her presence in every aspect of his life. Chatting idly with her while they’re waiting on hunts just like this one, sharing stories of their past over their dinners each night, playing senseless games to pass the time while Geralt rode ahead on the path, ignoring their nonsense. When she wanted to be, she really was an entertaining companion, far more talkative and amicable than Geralt had ever been.

But Jaskier will count his losses and call it a day if it means sparing himself her torture. That’s what he tells himself now, and what he’s told himself every day since that fateful argument that started this whole silent treatment business. No matter how he cares for Yennefer, he’d be a fool to trust her with any part of himself. Unfortunately, he’s not the kind of man who can care without investing himself in another wholly, without giving a piece of his heart out to them.

The only problem is, despite how very plainly clear he’s made himself, Yennefer won’t leave him the hell alone. Before she’d always been impassive toward him, indifferent most of the time, and occasionally amused like one would be by a monkey that knew how to dance. Jaskier intrigued her, but only on a surface level, like a toy that she grew tired of within minutes of awarding it her attention.

Whatever Jaskier had felt for her… it hadn’t been surface-level. 

He figures he ought to address it for what it was at this point, given that it’s crashed and burned up into the atmosphere, no chance of ever reviving. 

He thinks he loved her. At one point. He’s not exactly sure how it happened, how he looked at a woman so torn apart by her past and stretched thin by expectations for her future and saw through it all. He loves her chaos and her rage, and he loves that hollow part inside of her that she hasn’t dared to look at in years that’s vulnerable and honest and _scared_. He loves her at her best, he’s loved her at her worst, and in his heart he knows he loves her still now.

That’s the problem with giving your heart out to everyone that catches your eye. You can’t take it back later, if you happen to change your mind. Like any gift, the moment you give it, it’s out of your hands. It’s hers now, to do with what she will, and it seems like she’s intent on destroying it. Pity.

Jaskier ignores her, puts his quill to paper and starts scrawling out some rough lyrics.

“Jaskier.” Yen sighs heavily, like it’s of deep inconvenience to her to keep extending the olive branch only to have it batted away. Good. Jaskier thinks she could do with a bit of groveling, that it might build character in a woman who’s only ever been given what she wants. Well, since becoming a sorceress, since she’s been able to take it for herself. There was a time when she was helpless, when everything she was laid in another’s hands, when she’d been sold for less than a piglet. 

The night she’d told Jaskier _that_ particular story across the fire, Geralt was off on a hunt and it was just the two of them, and somehow that made it all the more intimate. For some reason, she trusted Jaskier with this information, her weak spot, the thing at the very core of that hollow place inside of her. He’d gathered her up in his arms and they’d fallen asleep like that, not even bothering to go to their bedrolls, just curled in the dirt around the fire.

If Geralt stumbled upon them come morning, he never said. And by the time Jaskier woke, Yen was gone. Sometimes he’s left wondering if he imagined the whole thing. They’ve never brought it up since, not once. It didn’t feel like Jaskier’s story to tell, to speak, to even think. 

He knows. He knows there’s a reason for her obsession with control. Knows that in her heart she’s still that little girl, desperate to prove herself, determined to never fall so far that she can’t save herself when she needs to. Jaskier doesn’t think anyone can ever bring that out of her, not with beatings, not with words of reassurance, not with the power and control she seeks… not with love. 

Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that her trauma has an iron-grip on her heart just as Geralt’s does his.

Geralt wears his trauma like a second skin, from his white hair to his yellowed eyes, every single scar speaks the story of it. There’s no hiding what he’s gone through, so he’s claimed it, built walls around himself with it and bricked himself inside, dares anyone to try and scale their way to the keep. And, for anyone who dares to, dares to get close to him and hold him and _love him_ … it’s obvious. 

He speaks of his past rarely, but not because he’s out to hide it, but rather because he’s come to grips with it. Accepted it. He doesn’t ponder what could have been, what other life waited for him, not anymore. He’s simply been dealt the hand he’s been dealt, and so he follows the path ahead of him.

Yen is different. Her wounds are hidden deeper, lost in a labyrinth so deep that she’s managed to convince almost everyone she meets that she’s invincible, that they don’t even _exist_. But they do, and unlike Geralt’s whitened scars of dead tissue, Yen’s wounds... they’re raw. They’re unhealed, bloody, infected gashes in her core, and she fights with everything she has to protect herself from ever being hurt again. She’s like a wild beast on the verge of death, snapping and snarling, willing to bite even the hand that extends to help her. Vulnerability is all the same to her, whether it’s shared with her loved ones or her enemies, it’s all admitting defeat.

Jaskier sighs, heavily.

It’s the closest thing to acknowledgment he’s given her in days though, and at that she lights up and sits taller, even getting to her feet and settling on the bench beside him. Normally, he’d be disgruntled at anyone getting so close to him while he’s working, trying to sneak a peek at his latest creation before it’s anywhere near finished. But he allows it, just this once.

“What are you working on today? Something new?” And it’s ridiculous, the lengths she’s willing to go to today, even so far as humoring him about his writing when she’s never shown a shred of interest in it before. He would laugh, but that would ruin the whole illusion, and then she’d know that he’s forgiven her already. 

That a part of him forgave her two days ago, when she made his favorite meal and spent the evening applauding his drunken singing. That a smaller part forgave her five days ago, when the rain was pouring down and the path was mud again and she slid down from Roach’s back, offering the seat behind Geralt to him instead. And maybe, at his core, he’d forgiven her the very moment he’d turned his back on her and stormed away after their fight. Because he'd known at her core, her intentions were good, were pure as they came... but the execution was simply so miserable that the impact was anything but.

She can’t know any of that, though. She simply can’t. For once in his life, Jaskier has to stand just tall enough to not be walked all over. Things can't go on the way they have been, he knows that. It's draining him, and whether he's immortal or not doesn't matter when it lives him feeling so very withered. There's a hairline fracture in his heart and every time she decides to poke and prod, it makes the gap grow another agonizing centimeter. He is serious about her meddling business, if he forgives her now she might not learn her lesson, might go back to her old ways and start trying to force him and Geralt into something. And he won’t have that, he absolutely won’t.

If something happens between them, he needs it to happen organically. He needs it to be the two of them, exchanging words, actual words. He needs to know without a shadow of a doubt that Geralt is speaking for himself, for his own desires. It won't come easily, Geralt is terrible at words and worse still at recognizing that he's allowed to want things at all. But Jaskier is patient, has been patient, planned on continuing to be indefinitely before Yen started pushing him ahead blindly. She's pushed him so far that the comfortable grey area he'd existed in for so long is too small for him now. He's forced to look at it for what it is.

He loves Geralt. He loves Yen. He loves them both, and if it were entirely up to him, he'd spent the rest of his life by their sides. 

But it's killing him. He can't exist on the scraps of affection Geralt gives back to him, when he's giving so much of himself up in exchange. He can't survive Yennefer, the way he never knows when he reaches out to her whether he'll be welcomed with open arms or a slap on the wrist. It's all terribly unstable, shaky ground and though the intrigue and the passion had kept him going for a while, it wasn't sustainable. He's too old for that now, to survive off of heartache and adventure. He's looking for comfort, for a home.   
  
He wants, so very badly, for this to be it.

He knows, in his heart, broken and battered as it is... it isn't. Not yet, anyway, but it does have the potential to be. Even if it doesn't end in the three of them, together, feeling the exact same way. Even if Geralt never loves him back. This can still be a home, as long as they communicate and open up to each other about how they're feeling. Jaskier included, truthfully. How can he expect Geralt to know what he's doing wrong if he's never told him? So for now, Jaskier will bide his time and work up his confidence, until he feels ready. He'll confess, to the both of them, and then he'll walk.

It'll be up to them whether they follow or not.

“A tale of a sex demon.” Jaskier muses, a blatant lie when she can see the lovesick scribblings all over the page, but she doesn’t call him out on it. After all, he’s speaking to her, for the first time in days.

“Something that Geralt fought?”

“Many times. He’s yet to be victorious.” Jaskier offers, the corner of his lips quirking with the urge to smile as she settles closer to him on the stump. She rests a hand on his shoulder and he doesn’t shrug it off, just glances over at her in question.

“That’s unlike him.” She replies, playing into his game just like Geralt had. 

“Mm, but this isn’t _any_ succubus. She’s the most wicked of them all. Rather than lure men in with her body, she uses her true lover as bait, waves him around like a piece of meat and tempts you in. Acts like she’ll let you have him and then pulls him away at the last moment, spears you through the heart, eats your cock clean off your frame. She’s a treacherous wench. I’ve been waiting for Geralt to rid himself of her for years and yet she stalks him still. Using him for cheap entertainment and a bargaining chip in her senseless mind games. It makes for a lovely song, but a tragedy to live it.”

“I think we should talk, Jaskier.” Yen tells him, ignoring his blatant insults. Then her hand is sliding down his arm, caressing his bicep over fine silks. Her touch travels lower when he doesn’t address it, until she’s grasping his hand and trying to pull him to his feet. He doesn’t go willingly, stays there slumped in the spot, staring disbelieving up at her. “No more insults. No more silent treatment. No more competing with each other. I think we should leave him out of it and just talk, the two of us.”

“Is that what you think?” Jaskier repeats, incredulously.

“Yes.” She insists, nodding her head. “We can go for a walk, leave Geralt to his devices here. It’s not like we’re missing much. We probably have time to resolve everything before the spirit even shows. I think it’d be best for us to discuss it when he isn’t around. For obvious reasons.”

“Obvious reasons, eh?” Jaskier repeats, curiosity sparking. His gaze keeps darting to the bushes Geralt’s concealed in, knows for a fact that he can hear them from here because of the whole lute-playing fiasco he’d been scolded for. If Yennefer dares to say a condemning word about his feelings, he’ll kill her.

“Yes, obvious reasons. Clearly his presence sways your judgment and he’s the reason we had this whole argument in the first place. It’s best we leave him out of it. What do you say?”

_Is he hearing her correctly? Is she saying that all of this is Geralt’s fault_ ? For what, for what fucking _reason_? Because he’s a horny bastard that doesn’t think twice before downing a sex potion? Fuck, she hasn’t even accepted the blame on herself yet. How is he meant to forgive her when she isn’t even ready to apologize?!

Suddenly, the flame of anger that’s long since been stomped into the dirt revives itself, sparking and spitting as it roars to life. He rips his hand from her grasp, snatches his notebook off his lap and marches in the opposite direction, back toward Geralt.

“I say fuck you, choke, and then die.” Jaskier answers pettily, stomping through the muck. He stops just outside the bushes Geralt’s hidden in, slams his hand down against a nearby tree trunk. “Geralt, come collect your whore, she’s getting on my _nerves_.”

“Hm.” Geralt sounds, emotionless, from somewhere out of sight among the underbrush.

“The pettiness is unbecoming, bard, and the scowl is giving you frown lines!” Yennefer calls after him, her tone cruel, like now that he’s talking they can bicker this out like they normally would. He ignores her, curls his fingers into short bark until they prickle with pain. He can’t believe her. He can’t _believe_ that all of her niceties were just an act. “As a matter of fact, I think you’ve gotten more wrinkles the past few days than you have in the past few years. Is the stress getting to you? Not cut out for adventure really, are you? A simple human, with a time clock ticking away like sands in an hourglass.”

And that, that gets his attention.

He whips around, entire body tensing with anger, his jaw dropping in disbelief.

“Are you fucking _threatening_ me?!” He splutters out, stumbling over his words as his body barely contains the amount of anger bursting forth from every seam. Yen doesn’t react, just keeps staring at him, eyebrows raised and hands on her hips, like he’ll give in and be the one to beg for _her_ forgiveness when threatened with his entire future on the line. That _bitch_. “Go ahead. Take it back, then! I don’t want immortality if it comes from your hands. Every gift you’ve ever given me has come laced with the ribbon of hidden debt. I don’t want it if it means having it lorded over my head for the rest of my life.”

“ _Immortality_ ?” Geralt repeats, in a rare show of emotional range, his voice going high in question and shock. And yes, well, Jaskier probably should have told him at some point that he’d made a deal with Yennefer to live forever. Ah well, he would have figured it out on his own eventually, when Jaskier just refused to age as the years passed. “ _Yen_ , I thought we said-”

“Stay out of this, Geralt.” Yennefer snaps at him, or rather in the general direction of him because no one can fucking see him where he’s camouflaged in the greenery. 

“No, by all means, Geralt, join in! Get angry, get proper pissed, you should be! Yen has been going behind your back just as much as mine. She’s given me immortality, you hear? You’ll be stuck with me for the rest of your days, no reprieve in the far off future, isn’t that infuriating?! She didn’t even consult with you first! The audacity! The utter lack of care for your opinion!”

“You fucking idiot, I _did_ consult with him.”

“W-What?” Jaskier gasps, looking to the bushes. But now, now Geralt is eerily silent, offering next to nothing in explanation aside from a long and tired sigh. Jaskier reaches up, rubs at his temples to stave of an oncoming headache. “Explain. Now. You guys had this conversation _without me_?!”

“He was the one that brought it up. He noticed you were growing older, taking longer to recover from injuries, that you couldn’t keep up with Roach as easily anymore. And rather than bring it up to you, he came to me, suggested I freeze your clock for just a few years, only long enough that you wouldn’t even notice, and eventually he planned on having the official conversation with you himself.” Yen explains tiredly, biting her lip. “He just never fucking _got around_ to it, because he was worried you’d say _no_ , that you didn’t _want_ to stick around forever. And then you came to me all upset that night at the ball, and I couldn’t just turn you away, could I!? So I just… I improvised.”

“Oh.” Jaskier says, a small noise, utterly weak.

“Jaskier, I want you around. We both do.” Yen huffs. “I didn’t _mean_ to hurt you. I thought I was helping.”

“Oh, so now you’re willing to admit it was you doing the hurting? That the blame is yours and yours alone, and has nothing to do with Geralt?” Jaskier snarks childishly, and marches back over to the stump. He gathers his things, slings his lute over his shoulder. His head is spinning, his heart racing, and he needs to be alone right now to process all of this. 

The thought that Geralt had planned for this is a rather unfortunate thorn in his side, pricking a hole in his theories and causing them all to deflate. Of course, it doesn’t necessarily mean Geralt is _in love_ with him like Yennefer claims, it hardly means that.

But just the simple knowledge that he cares for Jaskier, enough to plainly and firmly declare it by offering to _share the rest of his life with him_. Fuck. He doesn’t take that lightly, not when he can count the people Geralt is comfortable spending an evening with on one hand. Spending a lifetime with anyone doesn’t seem to suit Geralt, but it must, if that’s what he wants.

And he must want it, because he hadn’t so much as denied it from his perfectly easy hiding place in the bushes, where no one could see his face and read his reactions. Exactly how he likes it to be when he’s speaking of emotion, from the heart. Because for all his bravery and all the fearless odds he’s faced without so much as a flinch, Geralt can be a _coward_ when he wants to be.

“I wouldn’t say it has nothing to do with Geralt.” Yennefer calls after him, airy and light, easy enough to dismiss if he wanted to. And he does, he desperately wants to just leave it be and go back to ignoring her, but he can’t. Not when she’s talking like that, voice ripe with implications, tone exaggerated and obvious in nature. He can’t fucking stand by and let her rule the reigns to his life.

“We’re not having this fucking conversation. Not right now, not here.” Jaskier roars, storming back over to her. If they’re going to do this, which it seems they must, then it’s going to happen as far away from Geralt as humanly possible. Not because any of it is Geralt’s _fault_ , he didn’t ask to be the object of Jaskier’s affections and he definitely didn’t get involved in any of the drama surrounding them. 

It’s just, well, Jaskier can’t very well be mad at Yennefer without explaining to her why, and the why just so happens to be his best-kept secret that he’ll take to his grave if the sorceress would only _let him_.

“I don’t care. We’re talking this out. I can’t wait any longer, I can’t stand you when you get like this.”

“Like _what_?” Jaskier hisses, eyes narrowed.

“Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice is distant, a mere whisper, but it holds a warning. Likely telling Jaskier to back down before he starts a fight he can’t finish. Yen has been good about using her magic on him for the past few months, but there’s no telling what she’ll do now that he’s fighting back rather than giving her the cold shoulder. Geralt knows as well as anyone how cruel she can be in the heat of a fight.

“That wasn’t an insult. You know what I was trying to say, don’t make this more difficult on me than it already is. You’ve seen me struggle, you know how hard this is for me.” Yen explains, expression cold.

“And what of it? Should I pity you, Yennefer? Should I bend over backwards and accommodate you like everyone else does? I don’t bloody well care if it’s _hard_ for you. It’s harder on me to deal with you, to deal with the fallout of your actions, to gather the pieces up after you shatter everything you touch.”

“ _Jaskier._ ” Geralt repeats, and though it’s still quiet and reserved, now it sounds angrier. Perhaps he’s mad Jaskier is going for the low blow and he’s feeling a surge of protectiveness for the sorceress instead. No matter, Jaskier opts to ignore him.

“You know what you are, Yennefer? You’re a natural disaster. You know no fairness, no kindness, you blow through the lives of helpless bystanders and you uproot everything in your path. Never once in your life have you _built_ something, _made_ something for yourself. All you’ve ever done is torn others down, anything to crawl your way to the top. You might have a heart under there somewhere, but it’s buried deep under your obsession with power, and I don’t know if even the finest _shit-shoveler_ in the continent can dig it up. You’re a _lost cause_.”

“Jaskier!” And of, Geralt sounds right and properly pissed now, shouting angrily from the bushes as he starts to scramble out of them. Jaskier ignores him, keeps his gaze wholly focused on Yen. She’s staring at him wide-eyed and still as a statue, breath caught in her throat. She looks like she’s seen a _ghost_.

“Good gods, doesn’t it tire? Don’t you get _bored_ of chasing power? What can it possibly give back to you? At what point will it ever be enough?! Like a star, you’ll burn bright and you’ll burn bold, but inevitably you _will_ burn out, and who will be there to catch you when you’ve shot everyone else down from the sky? For once in your fucking life, just admit you aren’t perfect, that you’ve made a mistake, that you’re willing to take the fall for someone else, that you _need_ someone.”

“Jaskier, please.” It’s Yen that speaks this time, her voice breaking on the plea. 

“You can talk down to me, you can pity me all you want. But we were all born human, and we’ll all die human. We’re not as different as you think, you’re not so high above me that I can’t see your flaws.”

“Damn it, Jaskier!” Geralt roars, flying from the cover of the leaves with his sword drawn. For a terrifying moment, Jaskier thinks he’s about to be slaughtered as Geralt comes to the rescue of his fair maiden, which is a bizarre thought, but how else is he meant to interpret Geralt’s feral behavior? It takes him a few seconds and the sound of a splash as Geralt dives into the lake to realize what’s happened.

The spirit. The spirit must have shown while they were bickering. It must have heard and dove back into the water just as fast, startled by their presence. Fuck. He’d blown their cover.

From there, both Jaskier and Yennefer fall silent, standing by the lakeside and watching on helplessly as Geralt thrashes around in the water looking for his target. It’s clear by his amounting frustration, anger causing his entire form to tremble, that it’s a useless effort. Now that the spirit is once again one with the water, there is no finding it, no fighting it in its own domain. 

And when Geralt finally succumbs to that fact, he lumbers out of the water with his drenched armor clinging to his skin, rivulets of water dripping from the long strands of his hair. The scowl he wears is a dangerous thing, and Jaskier feels nervous to even approach him.

“Oh.” Jaskier breathes, as Geralt stomps heavily past him, back toward their packs. Slowly, Jaskier trails behind him, head hung low in shame. Yen follows suit, but she doesn’t even attempt to navigate a conversation, even still she steps down and lets Jaskier be the one to approach Geralt when he gets in moods like these. “Geralt, I’m so sorry. I should have been more careful. You warned me time and time again and I didn’t listen, I-”

“What part of quiet is such an abstract concept to the two of you?!” Geralt shouts finally, as he tips back his flask that he saves for only the worst of days and downs a few mouthfuls of the strong liquor inside like it doesn’t burn the whole way down. Jaskier stares at his feet, feeling ashamed. “This is it. I’ve had it with whatever’s going on between the two of you. I can’t ignore it when it’s constantly brewing over my head like a storm. We’re going to sit here and work it out, or I’m leaving you both behind. That’s final.”

And well, that hadn’t exactly been what Jaskier was expecting.

Never, in the history of traveling with Geralt, has the witcher been the one to suggest _talking things out._

“You wouldn’t.” Jaskier breathes, disbelief heavy in his tone. “You wouldn’t leave us.”

“I would.” Geralt insists, collapsing onto the stump and gesturing to the mossy forest floor for them both to settle. Jaskier hesitates a moment before settling in front of him, while Yen stays standing a few feet away, skepticism written all across her face. It’s not often she finds herself taking orders from Geralt these days, she seems to be having trouble grasping the concept as a whole.

“You couldn’t.” Yennefer counters with a scoff, holding her chin high. “I’d just follow you anyway, it’s not like you can portal away from here. And Roach isn’t _that_ fast.”

Geralt suits her with a long and unimpressed stare, before turning to Jaskier instead. 

“Jaskier.” He breathes the name with a softness that Jaskier hadn’t expected to hear for days after the blunder he’d just pulled. It’s clear that Geralt is making an honest effort and Jaskier knows the value of that, knows better than to take it for granted. So he nods, shifting closer, meeting his gaze directly. 

Geralt really is beautiful when he gets like this, all serious and earnest. He loves a playful Geralt that teases and mocks him with fondness in the crinkles about the corners of his eyes, and he’s even grown fond of the next to mute Geralt that’s lost in his thoughts and prefers to let Jaskier compensate for the silence, but this is the Geralt that makes him feel the _most_ treasured. Like an equal, like a presence valued wholly and openly, like a loved one. 

“Yes?”

“Listen to her. Swallow your pride. Hear her out.” 

“Geralt.” Jaskier whines, and there’s really no way to interpret it other than that, though he’d deny it vehemently if Geralt were to accuse him of such a thing. He shifts closer, rests his chin on Geralt’s knee, looks forlornly up at him. 

He doesn’t like this, that Geralt _knows_ Jaskier will listen, will grit his teeth and be the bigger person if he has to be, if Geralt asks it of him. Even though Yen isn’t held to the same standard, even though she gets away with _everything_ , never has to be considerate of anyone else.

But then Geralt settles a hand atop his head, clumsy and awkward, sword-calloused and rough… and Jaskier promptly forgets every hang up he once had. He’ll gladly, gladly apologize to Yennefer if it gets Geralt to keep touching him, keep smoothing his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his face, a gentleness unlike any they’ve ever shared without a reasonable excuse for it. 

Except, when Jaskier turns under his hand to Yen, moves to apologize to her… Geralt speaks over him.

“ _Yennefer_.” He growls out, and there’s a demand there, the unmistakable promise of him digging his heels into the dirt and refusing to be moved. Geralt isn’t backing down on this. Of the very few times he’s stood up to Yennefer and not taken no for an answer, this is one of them. “If you’ve hurt him, you’d best apologize and mean every word of it. Don’t bother with the excuses or trying to shift the blame, we both know he’s too smart to settle for that. He deserves your honesty, he deserves your genuine remorse. Don’t waste his time with anything less.”

Fuck.

Jaskier _knows_ love, he’s been molded by it his entire life, it’s his passion and his purpose. He’s been driven by his heart from birth, falling into bed after bed, falling into open arms whenever he happened upon them during his travels. He’s loved many and he’s loved deep, his heart belongs to a hundred places and not one of them resides in his chest. But by the gods above, this emotion inside of him now, blooming and bursting forth from his chest, feeding into his veins like liquid elation, overtaking him and remaking him… it’s gotta be something _more_.

He, Jaskier, Julian Alfred Pankratz, is a _pioneer_ in the field of love. 

And he’s just uncovered his greatest find yet, something that’ll redefine the very _definition_ of love.

A love _beyond_ loves.

A _better_ love.

He thinks he could cry in the face of it. It’d be strange of him, to burst into tears with his face nuzzling Geralt’s leg like a besotted puppy adorning its master with affection, and that’s the only thing that keeps him from it, but make no mistake that he _could_. Instead, he pushes his head into Geralt’s palm, feels the near imperceptible twitch of his fingers before the bury themselves deeper in his hair, blunt nails scratching at his scalp. And oh, fuck, maybe Jaskier should have paid for a whore in that last town, because his entire body comes alight with the touch. He’s starved for it, hungry to his core, like he’ll die without.

“Oh, like _you_ can talk, did you ever even apologize to him after what happened on the mountain?”

“He did. In his own way.” Jaskier offers, mumbling under his breath. Mostly because Geralt’s hand stills at Yen’s accusation, like the guilt from years ago has surged back to the surface and paralyzed him. Like he doesn’t deserve to touch Jaskier so casually when he himself is no better than Yennefer.

In truth, Geralt’s apology had been an entirely lackluster affair. Their paths crossed ways again on the road, both headed in opposite directions, and then Geralt had offered to _let_ Jaskier accompany him back to the very town he’d just left from. But, well, beggars in love can’t be choosers. So Jaskier pivoted, and followed Geralt right back to Oxenfurt, singing idly by his side.

Of course, when they’d reached the town Geralt had paid for their room and board, had even stayed downstairs in the bustling tavern until the early hours and watched Jaskier’s entire performance. Then they went to bed, and Geralt gave him a brisk but intensely awkward side-hug of sorts, and then they’d retired to separate rooms and gone on like nothing had ever happened.

He never said the words, but he didn’t have to. After all, Jaskier _knows_ him, could see right through him.

Yennefer, on the other hand… she’s about as opaque as a brick wall, so who the fuck knows what she’s thinking or feeling at any given time. Jaskier likes to think he knows her, sometimes he swears he does, but then she’ll do something utterly left field and blindside him, and he’s left second guessing again.

“Then how come I can’t do it in _my_ own way?! You make constant allowances for him and you dare to say that _I’m_ the one that’s impossible to please. How am I ever meant to live in the shadow Geralt casts me in when you idolize him like a god?! Nothing I do will ever be good enough for you!”

“I’ll leave if that’s what it takes.” Geralt offers, his hand retreating from Jaskier’s hair.

“No!” Jaskier cries out, ragged, desperate.

“Yes!” Yennefer cries out, ragged, desperate.

Geralt looks well and truly torn, as he looks between the two of them and finds no give at all behind either of their words. His shoulders slump, he runs a hand roughly through his own soaked hair, and he looks skyward like he’ll find his answers there. He draws a heavy breath, tense and unsteady.

“For fuck’s sake, will one of you just _tell_ me? Tell me what’s going on.”

“Simple.” Yennefer speaks up, without missing a beat. Jaskier jolts away from Geralt and turns toward her, lurching for her and landing face-first in the moss with a bitter grunt. Yennefer dances easily around him, comes to a stop behind Geralt and leans over his back, folding her arms in front of him. “Jaskier has something important to tell you. He won’t tell you. And he’s mad because I tried to force him to, for his own benefit, might I add. I really think he should just-”

“Shut-up!” Jaskier cries, fingers clawing at the earth as he forces himself up again, to stare at her. He knows how he looks, strung-out and on-edge, panic stricken down to his core. He knows that that in itself is a condemning reaction, but he can’t help it. Something innate and dire rises in him at the thought of having his feelings revealed on anything other than his own terms. He has too much to lose, everything to lose, and the longer he waits the more he gains. He _can’t_ risk it. “Shut the fuck up, for the love of fuck! Shut your whore mouth and drop the subject! Now!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, if you won’t do it then I will!” Yennefer snaps at him, stepping around to settle in Geralt’s lap, and he welcomes her despite the confusion displayed so clearly on his face. Her hands smooth across his jawline, tracing the outline of his scruff, thumbs pooling at the hollow of his cheeks.

“Geralt, this has been a long time coming, but there’s something you should know...”

“You promised!” Jaskier chokes out in the background, but it’s no use. He doesn’t even bother to scramble to his feet, to silence Yennefer the physical way. He just slumps, panting against the dirt, eyes wide and pleading. Yen gives him and sideways glance, but that’s the extent of her consideration, and then she’s looking back to Geralt. “Please, don’t do th-”

Suddenly, no sound comes from him, no matter how he strains himself to try and talk.

It’s been so long since it was used against him that it takes him a moment to recognize the burn and tingle of magic, the way it caresses his skin and constricts around his neck. He reaches up, hands pawing at his throat, eyes blown wide with betrayal. 

“Shut-up. Let me talk.” Yen snaps at him. Geralt is visibly agitated beneath her now, shifting to try and disentangle her limbs from his. His gaze is glued to Jaskier, even when she grips his jaw and turns it back in her direction, trying to force his attention onto her.

“ _Yen_. We said no more magic against Jas-”

“I’m in love with you.” Yennefer interrupts him. She says it like she’s said it a hundred times before, like it’s easy and light, like the confession hasn’t been years in the making. But Jaskier is no fool, he sees the way something splinters within Geralt hearing the words, sees the way his shoulders sag with relief and his lips twitch with the urge to smile, to bask in it. He can hear it, the snap of the final string keeping them from each other, and now there’s nothing left standing between them. 

“What?” Geralt asks, sounding more breathless than he ever has after a hunt. He turns back to her, trying and failing to bite back a smile, his face betraying him in the end and lighting up in warmth. He gives a confused chuckle, eyebrows furrowing together like he can’t quite decipher the meaning behind all the panic, all the hesitation. 

And Yen, she looks… just as happy. Overjoyed. Childlike wonder in her eyes as she discovers something new for the first time, something she’s been missing for her entire life. And maybe she feels it too, that level of love that Jaskier had previously thought unprecedented. Maybe he’s not _special_.

“I want to spend the rest of my days at your side. I care deeply for you, for your safety, your happiness, your health. I know I’ve been confusing and distant, I know this is long overdue, I know that we’ve both been feeling this way for far longer than this, but thank-you for waiting for me. I was scared. It scared me how much power you held over me, my heart in the palm of your hand. People have held my heart before and abused the privilege, but I know you won’t. I trust you. And I want to do better for you in the future, you deserve that. You deserve me to be honest, open with you. So I shall _try,_ my very hardest _._ I promise you that.”

“ _Yen_.” 

“I love you, Geralt.” Yennefer says it again, like she’s grown addicted to the taste of it on her tongue. She laughs, an airy thing, on anyone else Jaskier would classify it as a giggle. She leans in close, rests their foreheads together, shares her breath with Geralt. He gives a grumble of approval, leans into her, runs his hands over her sides. “Do you love me?”

“I… I do.” Geralt bites out, and it’s not uncertain, just clumsy. Jaskier doubts that he’s ever said anything remotely similar in his life, to anyone. There’s a unique torture in bearing witness to Geralt’s first love, of having been there every step of the way, but never _included_. “Of course I do” 

Of course he does. 

As if it was ever a question.

If Jaskier were capable, he’d laugh. It’d be a wry and pained sound, so heavy that his chest would crumple inward under its weight, he would fall apart with it. It’d be a laugh of irony, of unfortunate circumstance, a laugh of self-directed pity. It is, after all, impressive how Jaskier has managed to fall in love with two halves of the same couple, rendered his heart useless for two people that will never look away from each other long enough to see him. Call it bad luck, call it retribution for all the couples he’s torn apart and wronged, call it fate’s sick sense of humor.

No matter what you call it, there’s no denying that Jaskier has been dealt the worst hand.

He cries. It’s a soundless cry, given the magic still choking him out, not a single wet sob or choke to accompany it. It’s just the feeling of tears building in his eyes, blurring his vision, stinging like fire as they roll down his cheeks and fall to the ground beneath him.

“Well, that’s settled then.” Yennefer muses, pressing a lingering kiss to Geralt’s lips. He kisses her back, eager and wanting, gripping her hips and pulling her closer to him. They’re beautiful together, even now he can’t deny it, that everything about them feels right and everything about him has always been _other_.

Their fates are naturally intertwined the whole way through, looping and diving, curling around each other from one end to the other. And here Jaskier sits, tying knot after knot, desperately trying to force _his_ into the ropework.

It’s about that time that Geralt catches the scent of his tears in the air, saltwater a strange scent to be found at a freshwater lake. He pulls back from the kiss, places a hand on Yen’s chest as if to hold her at bay, and turns his focus to where Jaskier kneels a few feet away. His eyes widen, the closest thing to fearful he’s ever looked crossing his face.

“Jaskier? Are you alright? What’s wrong?” Geralt asks, scowl forming again.

“He’s fine.” Yen dismisses with a sigh, giving Jaskier an absolutely pitying look, as if to say he could fix all of this if he’d only man up and confess how he feels. Even still, she patronizes him, acts like he’s the only thing standing in his way. And it’s cruel, crueler than taking Geralt in the first place, to continue acting like she _hasn’t_. The very least she could do is give him the closure, the decency of accepting his loss.

It brings about a new round of tears, until his face is soaked and he’s struggling to breathe around it.

“He doesn’t _look_ fine.” Geralt snarls, and then he’s picking Yennefer up, depositing her on the ground in the moss none-too-gently. She gapes up at him, readjusts her skirts in an angry flurry, but Geralt doesn’t even look at her. He’s focused on Jaskier, utterly and wholly, as he stumbles over and kneels on the ground beside him. For the first time, Jaskier wishes Geralt would leave him, let him sort through and survey the damage alone. “You’re _hurting_ him.”

“I’m not.” Yen sounds insulted. Geralt ignores her, his heavy hands settling on Jaskier’s neck, fingers pressed to his pulse with startling gentleness. Jaskier reaches up, tries to feebly push him away, but Geralt isn’t having any of it. He grits his teeth, turning to Yennefer with a glare.

“Stop it! _Now_!”

“I’m not done speaking yet.” 

“I don’t care!” Geralt shouts back at her, slamming a hand down against his own thigh. He turns on her, and even kneeling in the dirt, he’s got a looming quality about him when he’s coming to Jaskier’s rescue. He wonders, dismally, if things would’ve been different without the djinn’s intervention, if he would have stood a chance with either one of them. “If you love me like you claim you do, you'll _leave him be."_

“Fine.” Yennefer sighs, waving her hand through the air and dismissing the spell. Jaskier heaves in a desperate breath, thankful to hear the noise that accompanies it. Of course, now he has to make a conscious effort to hold back the sobs clawing their way up his chest, but he’s glad to have his voice back all the same. Every time she takes it from him he worries he won’t get it back, and what life is there for a bard with no voice?

“Are you alright?” Geralt asks, crowding closer to him, placing a hand on Jaskier’s forehead like he’s gonna come away from a magic strangling feverish. Really, Geralt, it’s like the man hasn’t the faintest clue what he’s doing. Or maybe he’s just panicked, doing whatever he thinks of first, desperate to make sure that Jaskier is okay... but that’s a selfish thought and therefore Jaskier won’t humor it.

“I’m fine.” Jaskier insists, his voice surprisingly even. “I’m just _so_ happy for you guys. Took you long enough, huh?”

“Jaskier. What’s _wrong_?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. Everything’s exactly how it should be.” Jaskier says it with such confidence, to anyone else it might even sound like he believes it. “You got what you wanted, huh? The sorceress of your dreams and she finally feels the same way for you. You taught each other how to love, navigated your terrible communication skills, and came out stronger for it. People linked by destiny will always find each other, right? Good for you, Geralt. Really. I’m happy for you.”

Geralt stares at him. It’s a terribly unbecoming stare, more of a glare, more of a scowl. He looks like he’s trudging into battle against a particularly complicated monster, rather than parsing out a conversation with his best friend, celebrating his progress with his _lover_. 

Jaskier knows he’s an ugly crier, but this seems a bit much.

“Yennefer. What did you _do_ to him?” Geralt roars, turning to her with a vicious look about him. Jaskier would be a little bit fearful if he were in her shoes, but luckily he isn't, because he's never been more content to be in his own. For when Geralt looks back to him, his gaze is soft, bleeding concern pooling in his eyes. He fixes the collar of Jaskier's shirt, presses his hair back from his eyes, fumbling and clumsy like he needs to be doing something with his hands to help but can't determine what would be most effective for him to do. Jaskier can't handle it, can't handle the concern and the care after so long without. He cries harder, apologizing profusely for it all the while. Geralt ignores him, looks back to Yennefer, looking desperate now. “Fix it! Now!”

“I didn’t do anything!”

“Like hell you didn’t! You messed with his mind and you broke him, now _fix him_!” Geralt is growing increasingly more upset, but strangely, it doesn’t sound like anger. It sounds comically close to worry, to fear. Emotions that Geralt has always claimed relentlessly to be above, has never displayed so openly, not even when that slyzard dug its nasty claws into Jaskier’s leg. Is this really a more dire situation than that one was? It feels like it, to Jaskier, but he’d thought himself biased.

Either way, he’s not so self-absorbed that he’s enjoying ruining their moment together just to garner their pity. After all, he’s been rooting for the two of them for a while now, so he can’t stand here in good consciousness and drive a wedge between them. He loves them both, and he wants them happy, even if they don’t find it with him. Even if it leaves him hurt in the aftermath of their happiness.

“I have to go for a walk to clear my head, but I’ll be back before nightfall.” Jaskier announces, rising mechanically to his feet and turning on his heel. He doesn’t bother grabbing his lute or his notebook, not even his pack with emergency supplies. He figures he’s too far gone to utilize any of it right now, reduced to a baser sort-of being, of just thought and emotion. 

Geralt and Yennefer watch him go, exchanging worried looks, and now it seems Yen is starting to doubt herself and wonder if she has enchanted him somehow. So he forces her a smile, places a hand on her shoulder as he passes. “I’m sure you two want to be alone together right now anyway. Don’t worry for me. Enjoy this moment togeth-”

Yen sighs, rolls her eyes, then grabs a fistful of his collar.

Their mouths meet in a clumsy clash, Jaskier as utterly unprepared as he is. His eyes are even still open, wider than they’ve maybe ever been, as she grips his shirt tight and brings a hand up to his cheek. Her lips are soft, now that the pressure behind them isn’t bruising, and he focuses on that as his eyes finally fall shut. Kissing her isn’t nearly as alien as one would think, she doesn’t radiate chaos and power, she doesn’t have him cowering in his boots and submitting under her skillful tongue. It’s just like every other kiss he’s ever had has been… except maybe better, because no other kiss has made him _feel_ like this.

Like with every press of her lips to his, he’s being reassured, he’s being held and cherished. Like with every swipe of her tongue, she’s inviting him in, offering to keep him. Like when her hand touches his cheek, she’s tracing promises into his skin, promises of a future, of a home… of love.

She leads the kiss, but not out of a quest for power, but rather to accommodate for the way Jaskier has completely lost himself to it. He’s struggling to even remember to kiss her back, as his mind frequently wanders, trips over itself and tangles in all the thoughts racing through his mind. Luckily, she seems to know, as she nips his bottom lip and draws him back to her whenever he strays too far.

When they pull apart, it’s only because Geralt has settled a hand on both of their shoulders and is prying them in opposite directions. The very first thing Jaskier notices when his eyes open again, landing on Yen’s flushed face, is that she’s distinctly _not pleased_ about being interrupted.

“I _said_ I wasn’t finished speaking.” Yennefer says and Jaskier hears her, in the way that one hears the flow of water around them with their head submerged. It’s muffled, distant, her words taking a backseat to the rest of her that he’s _drowning_ in. He can still taste her on his lips, as his tongue darts out to wet them, and he thinks he might have died and gone to heaven. 

He wonders how it happened… probably a beastie of some manner, poor Geralt is probably beside himself for not saving him. A tragedy. But also… Jaskier finds that he quite likes heaven, so it’s hardly a loss.

“Yen, I swear, if you’re playing games with him right now-”

“I’m not.” Yen insists, reaching out and placing her hand over as much of Geralt’s face as it can hope to cover, fingers widespread and palm firmly planted over his mouth. She shoves him away, crowds herself closer to Jaskier, meets his gaze directly. “I’m afraid I’m in love with you too, Jaskier. I’m not sure when it happened, or how, but it’s been ruminating within me like an infectious tumor for a while and I figure I’d best admit it now, before you grow to hate me anymore than you already have.”

“ _What_?” Jaskier croaks, finally finding his voice.

"Is this a test? To see if I mean it enough that it bears repeating?" Yen asks him, smile kind, eyes wet. "I love you, Jaskier. I mean it. I promise. There is no game, no trickery afoot, I give you my word."

"W-Why?" 

“You’re such a selfless man, with a caring and softhearted soul, you hated me and yet you showed me more love than anyone ever has. You have such an excess of it, you just give it away. Give, give, give and people take, take, take from you. I never wanted to be one of those people.” Yennefer explains, her hair falling in her eyes as she looks down at the space between them. She kicks her boot against the ground, sighs softly. “And yet, here we are.”

Jaskier can’t stand the dejected look on her face, the way she’s letting the guilt consume her. He knows he’s to blame for it, that he’s been particularly cruel, lashed out just as she does. He reaches across the space between them, grabs both of her hands in his, squeezes them.

It seems to be just the encouragement she needs to continue. 

“Geralt’s right, I should be honest, you deserve that much. It’s true, at first I thought of it like a game, stringing you along and watching you try your hardest when it seemed like you were batting against impossible odds… it amused me. But the amusement became something more, and soon I found myself wishing for your happiness, if only because it was preferable to your sadness. And then, before I knew it, I wanted you to be happy because it brought _me_ happiness, it was fulfilling and inspiring. I wanted you to succeed so badly, I was blind to the harm I was causing by forcing it to be. I’m sorry, Jaskier.”

And while Jaskier greatly appreciates her bashful apology, knows from the way her hands shake and the way her words stutter past her lips in a way they’re almost never prone to do that it’s been difficult for her to share it… he’s still a little caught-up on the last part, forgive him.

“You? Yennefer of Vengerberg? You’re in love with _me_?” It’s not much, but it’s more than he’s been able to say since he felt her lips on his, so he’ll consider it a win. He keeps staring at her and she keeps looking back, a small smile curling across her lips, her eyes lightening up more the longer he gawks at her. 

“If you’re waiting for me to repeat myself a third time, it’s not going to happen. I’m not going to say it _again_ before you’ve said it back, I’m not _desperate_.” Yennefer informs him, but it lacks the seriousness that’s plagued the rest of the conversation, instead playful and teasing. Jaskier catches himself grinning before he can ward it away, and her hand comes up to trace the curve of his smile. “Now, if I can confess to something as sure to result in rejection as that, surely you can take the risk that you need to take too? Can’t you?”

Oh.

Right.

The reason this whole ordeal had started in the first place. He supposes she’s right, if she could look him in the eye when he’s been nothing but cruel to her for days and spill her heart out to him, then really what’s stopping him from confessing to Geralt? Aside from the obvious, that Yennefer has only just confessed, and Jaskier is going to pale rather terribly by comparison. He’s no sorceress, after all.

But when Jaskier turns to Geralt, curiosity tugging at the reigns of his heart, he finds Geralt hasn’t wandered far at all. If anything, he’s closer, standing beside them, looking wistful like he’s never seen a more beautiful sight than his two companions macking it up in front of him. There’s certainly none of the jealousy Jaskier has been expecting this whole time, and now he feels rather ridiculous.

“Geralt, I-”

“No.” Huh. Not what he was expecting. Things were looking so promising there. Maybe Geralt’s simply misinterpreted this, doesn’t understand what he’s trying to say, what Yennefer was alluding to. He’ll try again, just to be sure, to give him ample opportunity to change his answer.

“But-”

“Not right now, Jaskier.” Geralt repeats again, and really there’s no making the same mistake twice. 

“I understand.” There’s no hiding the disappointment in his voice, but he figures it’s warranted. He tries to put on a brave face, but inside he’s definitely floundering. What the hell is their relationship going to look like if Yennefer is in love with both of them and Jaskier is in love with both of _them_ and Geralt is just… not interested in Jaskier. It’s hard to fathom a future in a scenario like that. 

Geralt turns to go, grabbing his things and heading back toward their camp. Jaskier isn’t sure whether to follow or not, so he lingers by Yennefer’s side. It doesn’t occur to him to turn his head, to look at Yen’s reaction, or else he would see the look of utter rage twisting up her beautiful features.

“Geralt, I swear, if you walk away from this you’re not invited back!” She shouts suddenly, unexpectedly, and Jaskier near jumps out of his skin in shock. He whips his head around, looks at her with wide eyes, wonders if she could possibly mean that. It’s a bold claim to make, unless she knows without a shadow of a doubt that Geralt _does_ feel something for him. 

And if he doesn’t? What then? Geralt will stalk off alone and Jaskier and Yen will have to make do without him? He hardly likes that future anymore than the last. He can’t imagine any of them going their separate ways. The specifics, the labels of it, he doesn’t care for those. He just needs them to be together. It won’t feel like home if they’re not.

“Yen, it’s fine.” Jaskier whispers, as Geralt stills at the treeline and doesn’t go any further, just lingers there like she’s cast a spell over him. He doesn’t turn around though and without being able to see his face, Jaskier assumes the worst. He grabs Yen's dress, tugs on it demandingly. “It’s _fine_. He can go.”

“ _Fine_?!” Yennefer looks at him as if he’s lost his mind. Then, apparently displeased by whatever level of complacency she finds in his eyes, she turns back to Geralt and charges after him. Jaskier winces slightly, seeing the blunt way she handles things. “He’s in love with you, you big belligerent caveman! He’s spent the better part of his life chasing after you, bandaging your wounds, showing you kindness when you hardly deserved it. Even if you don’t love him back, he taught you what love was, so respect it enough to listen and give him an answer!”

Yennefer grabs Geralt’s arm, turns him around rather forcefully. Though Jaskier is no idiot, he knows that without the help of magic Yen would never be strong enough to maneuver Geralt against his will, and even with it she’d struggle more than that. He must be going along with it.

Geralt looks… well, overwhelmed, more than anything else.

He looks like he had the few times they’d found themselves in a situation he couldn’t work his way out of with brute force, the times when things were so dire he had to truly sit down and improvise a plan. He looks like he’s searching for his out now, eyes scanning the clearing, darting anywhere but to either one of their faces. He looks antsy.

And Jaskier's first instinct is to comfort him, it always is. He's done it countless times before, dismissed his own feelings to reassure Geralt through his. Geralt has lived a life long and wrought with sorrow, but no one has ever given him the grace of allowing him to feel... anything about it. Witchers weren't mean to feel, they'd all told him. Right from the moment they'd met, Jaskier had seen that as the bullshit it was, had worked tirelessly to undo years of conditioning. He almost succumbs to the urge to do it again now, to reassure Geralt that he's done no wrong, that his best is enough. But then his gaze meets Yen's for a fleeting moment and he finds himself torn.

Yennefer is the opposite of Geralt in as many ways as they're similar. Where he's self-sacrificing to the point he can't even recognize himself anymore, Yennefer has never bent a knee to or considered anyone but herself and it's limited her growth just as much. Jaskier doesn't think either one of them have it right, but if they could all meet somewhere in the middle... then maybe they'd be alright.

And Jaskier hasn't been in the middle for a long time. He's always been in Geralt's court, encouraging him, spurring him on blindly no matter what. He stood up to Yennefer because she demanded it of him, she threw the first punch and so he punched back. But, maybe, in his own way... he should stand up to Geralt too. Not because Geralt has been making an effort to push him down, but because Jaskier's been doing it all on his own, making himself small and easy to swallow because he's terrified of being too much for someone he cares about so much.

Jaskier draws a deep breath.

“Geralt, I won't make demands of you, and I won't claim that you owe me anything. You don't. Everything I've done for you, given to you, has been by own choice and I don't regret any of it. I'm not going to ask for repayment for my loyalty in any form. I gave it to you because I _wanted_ to." Jaskier gives Yennefer a pointed look and she nods, like she understands the lesson he's trying to teach her. In turn, he tries to understand the lesson she's teaching him. He steels his nerves, looks Geralt directly in the eyes as he continues. "But, I'm not backing down just because it's easier for you either. I have to do what's best for me, you understand. I need to do this. I've needed to for a long time. If I don't, it's going to continue to build inside of me, it'll fester into something ugly and resentful. And I don't want to resent _you_ for something that I did... or _didn't_ , do."

"Hm."

"I deserve to be able to at least say it. And I do think you should listen. I won't force you to, but I am asking you to. For me." Jaskier takes a deep breath, keeps staring at him expectantly, practically holding his breath in anticipation. But Geralt doesn't nod, doesn't give approval in the same way he doesn't give a rejection. He just stares right back, eyes intrigued and zeroed in on Jaskier so heavily he can feel his gaze like a weight. "Alright, well, I didn't think I'd get this far. The stage is set, the lights are on me, and yet... Gods, where are the words when I need them? I've imagined this so many times and it's always gone smoother than this in my mind, even the times when you didn't feel a shred the same and you brutally rejected me, I was more composed than th-"

“Geralt. Come now, interrupt him and sweep him off his feet already. I'm not sure how much longer I can watch this. Show some mercy.” Yen laughs, shaking her head fondly. Jaskier gives her an utterly betrayed gasp and she shushes him, gently smoothing a hand down his sleeve. She keeps looking up at Geralt, eyebrows raised as if challenging him. “I’m sorry, but you can’t honestly say you feel nothing for him. You treat him as tenderly as you do me. Sometimes even more tenderly, like when you let him get the chamomile oil out and-”

“Please, let’s just drop the subject.” Jaskier says, hastily. This is quickly veering back into pressuring territory, and he doesn't want Geralt to feel like he should say something he doesn't mean to placate him. That's not what he wants. Not at all. “I’m not going to stand by and let you nag him about this. He heard me out, that's all I asked of him. He can’t change how he feels on principle alone and I think he’s made it very clear that he doesn’t feel the same way I d-” 

“I _didn’t_.” Geralt interjects in a low growl, so quietly that it’s barely audible. 

“What?” 

“I _didn’t_ say that I felt nothing for him.” Geralt sighs heavily, like it’s paining him deeply to speak his feelings, and isn’t that just _so_ charming? Jaskier certainly knows how to pick them, doesn’t he? Between the sorceress that kisses him like she’s mad about wanting to in the first place, and the witcher that then grumbles through his confession like he’s pulling teeth. “And I _didn’t_ say that I don’t feel the same way.”

“Well, shit, you’d better say _something_!” Yen exclaims excitedly, elbowing Jaskier in the side encouragingly. But Jaskier's head is still spinning, so much so that he nearly tumbles to the ground, off balance as he is. Geralt's hand darts out and grabs his arm though, steadying him. And oh no, what the hell is he meant to do with that? Geralt's grip is tight and unrelenting, he doesn't let go even once Jaskier is standing on his own feet again. They're close, impossibly close, and Jaskier thinks he can make out flecks of what might be green in Geralt's eyes from this close. Or perhaps the trees are reflecting off them in the moonlight... how terribly, treacherously romantic. He could spend forever just like this and be utterly content with the fate he's been given. “Preferably before we die of old age, Geralt, _come on_.”

“Considering we’re all apparently immortal now, I don’t think we have to worry.” Geralt earns himself a punch to the arm for that one, and he nurses the wound with a rub of his hand, chuckling at Yennefer’s boldness. Then, hesitantly, his eyes dart to Jaskier’s. “I know what it _looks_ like, but this isn’t a rejection.” 

“It’s... _not_?”

“No.” Geralt inhales, takes a step closer until he’s standing tall over Jaskier. He leans in and Jaskier’s eyes flutter closed on instinct alone, which earns him the unique pleasure of hearing Geralt’s aroused growl up close and personal, all for him… but it doesn’t earn him a kiss. He pauses, cracks an eye open, stares up at Geralt with growing curiosity. Geralt hums. “Not a rejection. Just my own plea for mercy.” 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Geralt, just tell the man you _love him_. It's not _that_ hard, is it?!” Yen says, from somewhere behind Jaskier, where she’s no doubt storming about the forest and tearing flowers from their roots in growing impatience. For a moment, it looks like Geralt is going to listen to her. He opens his mouth as if to say something, and then just as quickly closes it, biting at his lips thoughtlessly. 

Somehow, it’s better this way. Not that he wouldn’t appreciate hearing the words, and eventually he will convince Geralt to speak them, but the lack of them doesn’t feel disappointing. Jaskier knows him after all, can read him like a book, can see what he means and what he feels even though he can’t put it to words. There’s something more intimate about that, about knowing with utter confidence before Geralt has even worked up the nerve to say it.

Still, Jaskier actually isn’t at all surprised when her hands land on his back and shove him forward, until he’s colliding with Geralt’s chest. Yen isn’t nearly the romantic he is, and her patience is nonexistent by comparison, unused to being denied things as she is. “Forget it, forget the words, you’re both men so I’m sure you won’t miss them. Jaskier’s been waiting for this. _I’ve_ been waiting for this. Kiss him stupid and show him what you’re good for, Geralt, because it sure as hell isn’t your prose.”

Jaskier decides to make the most of what he’s been gifted and tucks his face into the crook of Geralt’s neck, inhales the musk of sweat and forest floor, diluted by lake water but potent all the same. It’s only a moment before the chest he’s leaning against begins to shake, rumbling with quiet laughter. Strong arms settle around Jaskier’s midsection, haul him upright again until they’re looking each other in the eye.

And oh, how cruel it is, for Geralt to look at him like that if he _doesn’t_ expect it to end in a kiss.

“Yeah, _Geralt_ , kiss me stupid.” Jaskier goads, grinning devilishly up at the other man.

“Won’t take much.” Geralt teases.

“Hey! I take offense to that, you b-” But Jaskier forgets his outrage quickly, when Geralt reaches his hand up between them and pulls his riding glove off with his teeth like the brute he is, and Jaskier is suddenly hit with the urge to climb him like a fucking _tree_. With his hand bare, Geralt settles it on Jaskier’s cheek with a startling amount of sincerity, smooths calloused fingertips across his cheekbone.

More than once, Jaskier leans into the touch, demanding something more, but Geralt retreats with a smirk like he knows how he’s frustrating Jaskier and simply doesn’t care. Or maybe he takes amusement in it, as he strokes clumsy war-hardened fingers across soft unblemished flesh, explores Jaskier in a way he’s never dared to. It’s painstakingly intimate, even with all the things they’ve done together now, all the ways they’ve found themselves compromised in each other’s presence. This is different. This is more.

“Fuck.” Geralt offers, eloquently, and Jaskier can’t help but agree.

When Geralt leans down to kiss him, Jaskier’s legs nearly give out beneath him in anticipation. His heart races in his chest, his hands grasp desperately at the leather of Geralt’s armor, his feet arching to hold himself taller, to meet Geralt sooner. But just as their lips finally brush, just the fleeting sensation of contact, Jaskier stumbles backward. Both Geralt and Yennefer groan in unison, equally frustrated.

“Wait, there’s something I need to ask.” Jaskier whispers, as he tries to even out his breathing, tries to seem more composed than he really is. He can see the apprehension playing out across Geralt’s face, so he quickly clarifies. “Don’t worry, it’s a question with a yes or no answer. No well thought-out responses necessary. I wouldn’t put you through that.” 

“Hm, funny.” It lightens the mood just enough that Jaskier thinks he can ask what he needs to, as he traces the seams of Geralt’s padded armor with a fingertip. He doesn’t look him in the eye though, that would make this too hard on the both of them.

“This isn’t coming from a place of pity, is it? You're sure this is really what you want? It's not a spur of the moment thing, it's not because of Yen's pressuring, it's not because of some sex potion influence or-"

“For fuck's sake, are you seriously doubting it?” Geralt answers him before he even manages to finish asking, and upon noticing the skeptical look Jaskier is shooting his way, even goes so far as to elaborate. “Jaskier… I'm sure. I’ve _been_ sure. For _years_. Even if I'm not the best at saying it, or even showing it, I've certainly been _feeling_ it.”

Surely Jaskier misheard that just now, right? Because it sounded like Geralt said _years_. Years he’s spent willing to kiss Jaskier, willing to pursue this, wanting more on his end just as Jaskier always had. Years.

“You really love me, don’t you?” Jaskier says, mostly for his own benefit before anyone else’s, trying and failing to process the information. He really hadn’t meant to come back to the question, to throw it in Geralt’s face again like he was expecting a clearer answer. He wasn’t, he was just… coming to terms with it, rolling the idea around in his head, the idea that this entire time Geralt had been as enamored with him as Jaskier was with him. It’d seemed so hard to believe, but he can’t deny that Geralt is here, his chest beneath his palm, rising and falling steadily, relaxed, _content_. 

“Hm.” To anyone else, it would be a noncommittal sound, maybe even insulting in its lack of clarity. But not to Jaskier, who recognizes it for what it is in a second, feels his face heat and his heart pound. Geralt is agreeing with him, is giving in with resigned acceptance, too weak to deny it or dodge the question.

“You do!” 

“Don’t make a big deal out of it.” Geralt says, but that isn’t a denial either, it’s an admission just as much.

“Oh no, no, I’m making a big deal out of it.” Jaskier insists, rocking back on his heels to stare adoringly up at Geralt. He looks over his shoulder to where Yen is lounging back in the moss, witnessing the entire exchange. He grins ear-to-ear at her, unable to contain his giddiness, and she smiles back and gives him a clumsy thumbs-up in response. 

Then, he rounds on Geralt again, questions aplenty bubbling to the surface that he can’t hope to bite back. “Years? How many years? Can you pinpoint the exact moment it happened, I need to know. What was it I did that made the Geralt of Rivia fall in love with me, hm? Was it something big... was it that time I tried to fight off that bandit that I caught snooping in Roach’s saddlebags!? Tell me it was! I knew my chivalry would win me your heart someday. Gods, please, at least answer me the when so I can work out a timeframe. I need to know how long we could have spent holding each other, how long we could have been sleeping in the same bed, kissing each oth-”

For once Jaskier is happy to be interrupted, as Geralt sweeps down and claims his mouth with a soft kiss.

Truth be told, he sees it coming even before Geralt starts to lean in. There’s something that flashes in his eyes, something intrigued and determined, and it’s a look Jaskier’s seen before. Oftentimes when he’s around Yen, always just before a fight when his eyes land on his latest conquest, and sometimes when he catches Geralt’s eyes on him seconds before they flit away. He’d never equated it to kissing, to a desire to _have_ , a possessiveness and a hungriness. Until now, he’d never made the connection. 

The predictability of it somehow doesn’t work to lessen the effect it has on him, not in the slightest. It just works to make his heart feel even more full, swathed with love and affection, and pride that he knows Geralt as well as he does. The kiss is ridiculously gentle, easy and fleeting, giving Jaskier plenty of time to back away if he wants to… Jaskier knows how Geralt _really_ wants to kiss him, can tell even with his eyes closed, simply from the heavy way his hands settle on Jaskier’s hips.

Unlike Yen, who didn’t hold back whatsoever, kissed Jaskier with her all and dared him not to enjoy every second of it; Geralt kisses with a hesitance about him. He’s more than happy to let Jaskier set the pace, to be the first one to push it further than a light peck on the lips. When Jaskier darts his silver tongue across Geralt’s bottom lip, it earns him a low groan of approval, and Geralt opens to him like he’d been waiting on the opportunity for _eons_. 

And when Jaskier presses in close, Geralt doesn’t take a fumbling step backward to accommodate, he mirrors him just the same and gives Jaskier more access to him. He’s pliant beneath Jaskier’s hands, reactive to every curious touch or teasing flick of his tongue. It’s the most bizarre thing, how comfortable it is to kiss Geralt, like he’s done it a hundred times before. It’s familiar, achingly familiar, to kiss someone that you’ve known so intimately for so long. It just feels like an extension of what they’ve already had.

Geralt is the first one to pull away, taking the initiative there, but only because Jaskier was growing short of breath and was too stubborn to stop. So Geralt makes the call for him, pushes him back with a quiet hum of approval, soft and pleased. And Jaskier’s head is swimming with it, his heart soaring leaps and bounds through his chest, already addicted to hearing Geralt’s pleased noises.

They don’t separate far, Geralt doesn’t try to, and even if he’d wanted to he wouldn’t be able to with the white-knuckled grip Jaskier has on his armor. He doesn’t try to fight it though, just tucks his forehead in against Jaskier’s, and lets them breathe together. It’s painstakingly romantic, Geralt trying and failing to bite back a smile, ending up smirking despite himself. Jaskier can’t help but copy him, until they’re both laughing breathlessly, and Geralt is nuzzling his forehead into Jaskier’s hair.

“Long enough that I couldn’t handle another second without.” Geralt answers belatedly, something smug about the way he says it, like he’s truly just kissed Jaskier stupid when he wasn’t even the one doing the work. Jaskier quirks an eyebrow at him, but he can’t fight off a smile. “Is that answer enough for you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am So sorry it took this long to update after leaving you on that angsty cliffhanger last timeAAA!!! This was not the intention at all. It was partly because I'm terribly addicted to animal crossing, but also because a few comments made me rethink this scene a lot and I went in to edit it... I added like 5k words to this chapter and then my computer froze and DELETED THEM ALL. And I was so mad that I genuinely didn't even want to look at it for at least a week. 
> 
> Anyway, here I am. Back at it again, still mourning the loss of all those additions, but alas. This is how the story was originally going to be posted so I'm sticking by it. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and the FINAL part will be posted sometime in the next 24 hours FOR SURE, u can hold me to that, spam my comments if it's not here by then. Thanks so much for reading and I hope you like how this chapter plays out!!! 
> 
> my socials:  
> @melancholymango on twitter/tumblr  
> @redgaysonly is my nsfw fandom twitter


	8. And there's no better love, that ever has loved me

_Is that answer enough for you?_

Geralt had said it with a smile curling his lips that Jaskier couldn't get enough of, decided to take matters into his own hands and demand more of it. 

"No, my dear witcher, I think you'd better elaborate." Jaskier tells him around a smirk, trouble no doubt sparkling in his eyes. He grabs Geralt's doublet and pulls him in before the other man has any hope in hell of warding him off, not that it seems he really wants to. He follows Jaskier's lead surprisingly well.

This kiss is more ambitious than the last, and Jaskier knows he’s the one to blame for it. Now that he’s had it once, he’s growing greedy for it. Can anyone really blame him, after waiting this long? He wants to do all the things he’s dreamt about for years, wants to savor this moment and admit it to memory, he wants to make sure it’s real. 

So he untangles his grip from Geralt’s clothes, reaches up to cup his face instead. 

It’s a unique experience, feeling the shift of Geralt’s strong jaw as he uses it to undo him, to kiss him deep and suck on his tongue. It’s still not a particularly hard or fast kiss, not like Yen’s had been, bruising in its intensity… but it’s warm, saccharine sweet, lust-filled and heavy in its slowness. Jaskier feels drunk on it, as he indulges and indulges, like he'll never get to experience it again.

Once he’s had his fill of mapping out Geralt’s strong masculine features and feeling that face that’s haunted his dreams for years, his hands shift that little bit further and wind themselves into his long silver hair. It’s still damp, but Jaskier doesn’t particularly mind, brushes his fingers through it and untangling knots as he goes, a distraction from the back and forth of their kiss as it heats up into something more implicative. Smirking into the kiss, he gives Geralt’s hair an experimental tug, and immediately regrets it when Geralt pulls away from him. Not far, only an inch at most, but it's an unexpected end to a kiss that Jaskier could've seen going on a lot longer.

"Jaskier." Geralt growls it out so close that Jaskier can feel the way his lips tremble with it.

Alright, alright, he’ll accept that sometimes fantasy is just that, fantasy. As much as he’d love for Geralt to turn to putty under his hands and moan like a whore when Jaskier gets his hands in his hair, it’s an unrealistic wish. He’d sort-of figured that Geralt wouldn’t be into hair pulling, what with how protective he is of his long locks, and how stiff he got the first few times Jaskier works deft fingers through it and tried to be as gentle as possible about scrubbing it clean. 

"Sorry, sorry." Jaskier mumbles uselessly, surging forward to kiss him again. This, Geralt doesn't protest at all. Neither does he protest when Jaskier's hands wander further south now that he knows hair pulling is off the table. They wander down to his shoulders and past, mapping out his biceps, then trail effortlessly down the length of his arms and grip his hands. Geralt gives an inquisitive noise into the kiss, but Jaskier just pulls back enough to shush him before kissing him harder, distracting him. And then, he takes Geralt’s hands and places them on his hips. Adaptable witcher that he is, Geralt clues in after just a short few seconds, and then he’s using his grip on Jaskier’s body to pull him closer.

Their bodies fit together nicely, Jaskier thinks.

He’s definitely not biased by the press of a hard cock against his, giving away Geralt’s enjoyment just a little bit more than his heavy breaths and trembling hands could have.

Jaskier smirks wickedly into the kiss, then rolls his hips forward in a precise grind. He feels the way their cocks slot together, swears he can feel Geralt’s twitching even through the layers of clothing between them, big as it is. Those heavy hands he’d left on his hips grow more demanding now, fingertips digging into his skin hard enough to leave bruises behind. And then they… travel, further back… until Geralt’s gripping two handfuls of Jaskier’s ass and forcefully yanking him closer.

Jaskier throws his head back and breaks the kiss off, if only to cry out into the otherwise silent forest. It doesn’t deter Geralt, who instead descends upon his neck, kissing and biting across pale unmarked skin like he’s made it his personal mission to claim every inch. All the while, he keeps manhandling Jaskier’s body against his, rocking their hips together.

_Fuck._

Jaskier is so lost to it, he nearly jumps out of his skin when a second set of lips settles at the nape of his neck, far more delicate hands sliding around to his front and shucking his shirt up. 

“Such a tiny thing when you’re pressed into him, aren’t you? You're hardly a small man, and yet he dwarfs you.” Yen muses, her hands sliding across his stomach, through the thick thistle of dark hair there, and then higher. She only stops once she’s reached his nipples beneath his shirt, fingers tweaking them playfully. He whimpers, resting his head against her shoulder for support, eyes falling closed again. “Please tell me you boys aren’t planning on dry humping to your finish again, that got old around the second time you did it and I was looking forward to something new and exciting tonight.”

Geralt gives a snort of laughter at that, where his face is pressed tight to the dip of Jaskier’s collarbones, his hands palming at his ass with growing urgency. Jaskier chuckles too, though it’s hazy and faraway, as lust-addled as his brain is right now. He knows she’s right though, that he’ll kick himself if this is as far as they go tonight. He can do better than this, surely. He has so much more he wants to _try_.

“Geralt?” Jaskier calls into the evening air, his voice dripping with intent.

“Hm?” Geralt grunts, reduced to his baser nature, caught up as he is with devouring Jaskier’s neck and making a home for himself there. Jaskier grins lazily, reaches up to settle a hand in Geralt’s hair again. He doesn’t try to grab at it though, instead just strokes his hand across it, pushing it back from his face. And Geralt… presses into the touch, even moans softly in the back of his throat. A total opposite reaction from before.

So maybe he _does_ like having his hair played with after all, just in a kinder way.

“Love of mine, my dashing and handsome white wolf, _sweetheart_ -”

“ _Yes_ ?” Geralt growls, annoyance growing with each and every pet name Jaskier drops. It doesn’t help that Yennefer is snickering behind him, like she can’t even fathom the idea of Geralt allowing himself to be referred to as anything other than his name. But the joke’s on her, truly, because Jaskier is the one currently pressed up against Geralt’s cock, so _he_ feels the way those strong hips stutter in rhythm at the use of the word _sweetheart_.

Hook, line, sinker, Jaskier has fucking _caught him_.

If Jaskier were a kinder man, he’d store that information away for a later date, and let the witcher keep his pride. This is their first time after all and he shouldn’t push the limits of what he can get away with so soon into this... but Jaskier has always been a boundary pusher. And fuck if it isn’t the biggest ego boost imaginable, to take a shot in the dark and effortlessly guess one of Geralt’s buttons, prime for pushing.

He straightens himself up, ignores both matching whines of protest he gets from either side of him, and then slides his hand free of Geralt’s hair to give him a placating pat on the cheek. Slowly, he shifts in, eyes dark and completely focused on the task at hand. Geralt blinks at him, his suspicion growing, as Jaskier ducks to take his earlobe between his teeth. Quiet, laced with lust so strong it’s almost dizzying, Jaskier whispers a promise into the shell of Geralt’s ear.

“Get those fucking clothes off, _darling_ , because I’m about to suck your _soul_ out through your cock.”

“Fuck.” Geralt bites out, but then he’s scrambling to do exactly as he’s been told. And maybe Jaskier was wrong, maybe _this_ is the biggest ego boost imaginable, watching Geralt stumble over his own feet in his desperate rush to tear the clothing from his frame. Jaskier leans back to watch, grin engulfing his face.

“There we go. I knew you’d pull through.” Yennefer claps her hands together, stepping around to stand beside Jaskier, admiring the show just as must despite seeing it countless times before. Jaskier thinks he understands her a little better now, as he watches a man as powerful and stoic as Geralt strip himself for Jaskier’s liking. Yeah, maybe there’s something to this power and control business. 

The only thing that could possibly make this better is if she…

Jaskier turns to her, smirk displayed plainly across his face.

“Your turn.” And it’s just lighthearted enough that it _could_ be dismissed as a suggestion, but the lidded gaze he’s casting over her from head to toe says otherwise, makes it clear that there’s a little more weight behind it than a lofty comment. She quirks an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t back down, decides to press his luck a little bit further and steps into her space. “Take it off. I wanna see you too.”

At that, she laughs. It’s a bright and amused sound, enough to have Geralt’s head jolting up from his tangle of limbs to look at her, and the sight of her must reignite the flame inside of him, because he looks absolutely lost to it, lovelorn as a maiden as his eyes grow soft and wistful. It’s sweet, Jaskier doesn’t even feel the barest pang of jealousy, only happiness.

He’s brought back from his warm thoughts to Yennefer’s hand slapping him on the ass, though.

“Oh, Jaskier, you amuse me so.” She muses, grinning as she grabs a hefty handful of his ass, grips it hard enough to dig her fine-pointed nails into the soft flesh. Her voice takes on a mocking quality, something nasty in the curl of her smile that has Jaskier wishing he could backtrack and swallow the words back down his throat. “Gonna suck my _soul_ out through my _clit_ too, pretty boy? For a poet, your dirty talk certainly leaves something to be desired. Rather vulgar. Setting yourself up to disappoint, too.”

“ _You_ .” Jaskier hisses, reaching behind himself to swat her hand away. She goes willingly, dances around him with a cheeky poke of her tongue past her lips. “You are the most _infuriating_ woman I’ve ever met!” 

“Is that so?” She jeers, circling back in close to him, leaning in until their noses are practically brushing. 

“Yes! Which makes it all the more confusing how I managed to fall in love with you!” Jaskier sighs, throwing his hands up into the air for emphasis. Yennefer looks taken aback for all of a second before her easy smile is plastered back on, though the softness in her eyes doesn’t fade. He realizes belatedly that he’d never said it back to her earlier, and he can’t help but wonder how she ever doubted it. Of course he was in love with her. Two people that’d been through as much as they had together couldn’t not love each other, at least a little bit.

But, as he’s painfully aware, he loves her more than a little bit.

“Trying to sweet talk me out of my clothes?” 

“Well, _yes_ … but I mean it, too.” He insists, stepping into her space and kissing her cheek. She allows it, gives a quiet hum of acknowledgement more-so than approval, and so he opts to start untying the laces of her flowy dress instead. She doesn’t stop him, just watches him with hooded eyes as he slowly unveils more of her chest. His excitement grows, as his tongue dart sout and hastily licks across his lips, wetting them. “I can’t wait to have you. To wipe that fucking _smirk_ off your face. Finally gonna put you in your place. It’s about time someone showed you that you don’t rule the world, Yennefer, and I intend to be the one to do it.”

“How is it that you _still_ don’t understand?” Yennefer rolls her eyes, reaching up to push his hands aside and undo her dress on her own. Jaskier can’t lie, she manages to untie the ribbons quicker than he ever could have, and soon her dress is pooling at her feet in a pile of dark fabric. He grins, immediately reaching to lay his hands on her bare hips, to work his fingertips under the fine lace of her panties… and she steps away at the last second. “You may have Geralt wrapped around your little finger, but you’ll never have me like that. I’m not a thing that can be owned. You will always bow to me. You just have to learn how to like it. And trust me, you will.”

“I’m going to make you beg.” Jaskier insists, with an air of cockiness he surely has no right to. 

“I’m going to make you _cry_.” Yen counters, making sure he’s watching before she starts to work her undergarments down her legs, a sensual tease as the fabric slides across smooth skin. She makes sure to stay just out of his reach, and when he attempts to saunter after her, he feels the gentle caress of her magic keeping him glued to the spot. Entirely unfair, if you ask him.

At the very least, however, he finds that he still has his voice about him to speak his displeasure.

“Fuck you.”

“Cute. But you haven’t earned the right to, not yet.” Yen muses, laying her dress out across the moss and then settling her bare bottom against it, leaning back and spreading her legs wide, shameless with her nudity as always. Slowly, she brings one of her hands down between her thighs, traces a teasing finger around her clit, then sinks lower to press it inside of herself. Jaskier’s breath catches, and again he finds himself attempting to step closer, only for the magic to hold him at bay. He growls low in the back of his throat, a distinctly Geralt-like noise, and Yen laughs good-naturedly at him. 

“I’ll show you who’s earned the right to fuck who, you self-obsessed narcissistic w-”

“Jaskier.” Geralt interrupts him, and though it’s clear he’s aiming for scolding, it comes out as something laced with exasperated fondness. It’s odd, how it doesn’t sound foreign at all on his tongue, like maybe he’s been speaking in such a way all along and Jaskier just hadn’t dared to believe it. “Leave Yen be and get over here, don’t get distracted until you make good on your first promise.”

Jaskier lights up at that, spins around gracefully and performs a dramatic dip, bowing his head.

“But of course, love.” Jaskier says, and really it shouldn’t surprise him when Geralt’s response is to grab him by the shirt and pull him in. Jaskier staggers, his feet flailing under him, and eventually ends up on his knees in the dirt. Blessedly so, he decides, as he lifts his gaze and finds that Geralt has maneuvered him right in front of that glorious cock of his.

“Oh, how could I forget _this_.” Jaskier whispers, something awed in the way the words well up heavy and full in his throat, all-encompassing and demanding in nature. Geralt is bare where he stands above him, apparently having managed to completely strip in the time Jaskier was focused on Yen. It really is a beautiful body, muscular and defined, power radiating off of every inch of the pale skin. If Jaskier were any other kind of man, he might find it intimidating, how Geralt is built like a warrior from head to toe, strong enough to snap necks with a flick of his wrist. 

As it is, Jaskier has to reach down to sheepishly readjust his trousers. 

“Well?”

“I don’t know which I love _more_. You, or your cock.” Jaskier responds, as he slides a hand up Geralt’s thigh, tracing his fingers through wiry leg hair. Geralt grunts, visibly uncomfortable with the kind words in his direction. He’s not much for taking compliments, perhaps he feels he doesn’t deserve them.

So Jaskier will have to lavish him in praise the old-fashioned way, in much simpler terms.

“It’s not like you have to choose between them, they’re sort-of a package deal.” Yen comments, from somewhere just out of Jaskier’s line of sight. He rolls his eyes, amused but unwilling to give her the satisfaction of seeing it. He doesn’t need the distraction anyway, as he moves in and presses a kiss to the tip of Geralt’s cock, lips pursed loose around the head, but not quite taking it into his mouth yet. Just that barest hint of attention is enough to have it twitching, a blurt of pre-cum beading at the head and smearing across his bottom lip as he draws back.

His tongue darts out, lapping it up, and he’s not even aware of how lewd it must be until Geralt groans above him. He sounds wrecked already and Jaskier hasn’t even done anything other than sit and look pretty at his feet. It brings a wry little smile to his face.

Deciding to get down to business, Jaskier spits into his palm and then runs his hand over Geralt a few times, slicking him until he’s shining. By then his cock is undoubtedly fully hard, straining and flushed an angry red, and Jaskier can’t help but marvel at the sheer size of it. He’s not sure he’ll be able to fit it all in his mouth, but he’s never considered himself a quitter, and he won’t start now. 

“Fuck, Geralt, your cock is a thing of wonder. None of the whores ever came close when they described this, I can tell you that much.” Jaskier muses aloud, rattling on to himself as he strokes Geralt hard and fast, jerking him off while the head of his cock rests against Jaskier’s own pouted lips. Occasionally, he’ll let his tongue dart out, to tease the head of his cock and dip into the slit where it’s leaking steadily.

“Are you calling me a whore again?” Yennefer teases from above him, her hand settling in Jaskier’s hair from behind. Apparently, and unsurprisingly, she isn't one for being ignored. Jaskier finds he doesn't mind to split his attention, not when he can feel her sharp nails scratching idly at his scalp. In fact, he quite likes being sandwiched between them, drowning in their dual attention.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. You’re the image of abstinence, the poster child for purity.” 

“I think I’d like you better with your mouth stuffed full of cock.” Yennefer suggests none too discreetly, using her grip on his hair to try and force him into taking Geralt into his mouth. He stalls just to annoy her, instead mouthing at Geralt’s swollen cockhead, lapping at it like an over eager kitten.

“Mm, fuck.” Geralt growls out, and it’s the sexiest thing Jaskier has ever heard in his life.

And that’s the final straw, Jaskier may be a tease but not so far that _he_ has to suffer as well. 

Jaskier’s jaw drops and he holds his mouth open wide to accommodate for Geralt’s size, and Yen doesn’t hesitate to guide him forward. He inhales sharply through his nose, near moans at the scent of sex and sweat that fills his nostrils as he slowly works his mouth down the length of the shaft, all the while swallowing around the steady drip of pre-cum against the flat of his tongue. Geralt produces an insane amount of the shit, possibly something hardwired into his DNA to lubricate the way for his absolutely massive prick.

It takes Jaskier’s full concentration to work his lips down Geralt’s length, feeling his cock twitch and shudder with each agonizingly slow and slick inch. But his partners are nothing if not understanding. And by that he means that they busy themselves with each other, until he’s looking up through his lashes with a cock lodged halfway down his throat, and above him he can watch as Geralt and Yen go at each other kissing. They’re rough with it, Geralt’s nails biting into the soft flesh of Yennefer’s hips, her kiss bruising as she bites and sucks at his lips.

In the end, Jaskier only really takes two thirds of him before the strain on his throat is too much. It was unrealistic to think he’d take anything more than that, when Geralt’s cock is comparable to Jaskier’s forearm, but it’s been a dream of his to deepthroat Geralt for years now and of course he was going to go for it, impossible odds or not.

Still, Geralt doesn’t seem disappointed as Jaskier eases back and then takes him down again, as much as he can fit before threatening to suffocate around it. If Geralt’s reaction is representative, that in itself must be a unique sensation, feeling Jaskier’s throat fluttering around the head of his cock, trying and failing to accommodate its size. The hand that settles in his hair beside Yennefer’s is much larger, and much rougher as it palms at the back of his head, cradles it and pushes it forward in the same instance, until he’s gasping for air again.

He knows the moment Geralt and Yen break apart, when Geralt’s throaty groan filters through the clearing and its no longer muffled, but rather loud enough to stir the dead. Fuck. Jaskier has never heard him sound so pleased, so lost in it. It inspires him to work harder, until his jaw aches with every pass of his lips over his length, his own erection straining painfully against his trousers.

“Such a pretty cocksucker, isn’t he?” He hears Yen say, but he doesn’t see it, his eyes pressed closed as he concentrates on sucking Geralt off. Yen’s hand slides from his hair, down the side of his face, and her thumbs swipes up some of the excess saliva shining wetly against his chin. “Pretty when he sings, but prettier yet when you shut him up.”

“Jas, fuck. Just like that.” Geralt gasps, panting like he’s run a marathon, had the breath squeezed out of him. It’s clear he’s struggling to keep from fucking forward into Jaskier’s waiting mouth, his hips shaking with need every time Jaskier swallows him down again. “Mm, you’re good at this.”

“Just good?” Yen muses, wickedness on the tip of her tongue. “I think you can do better than _that_.” 

And he knows it’s just teasing, just playing with him like she always does, but it resonates deep in his gut and as something fiery and competitive brewing in him. He bets that _she_ takes Geralt deeper, takes him to the root and holds him there, warms every inch of his cock for him. After all, she has magic on her side, so anything is within her realm of possibility. She has no limits.

He grumbles in the back of his throat, pulls off Geralt and jerks him with his hand in the meantime, ignores the man’s heavy sigh of protest. It’s almost like he can already tell where this is going, as Jaskier glares haughtily up at Yen, eyes narrowed into thin slits. 

“Fuck off.”

“Show him how badly you want it. How many years have you been waiting for this moment, are you really gonna let it be anything less than extraordinary?” And now that Jaskier has shown even a shred of his insecurity, she’s hunkering down and committing to it, goading him with her teeth bared in a crooked grin. “He looks bored, Jaskier, I bet he’s had better. You’re barely on the level of a sub-par whore, and he’s had many of those, as I’m sure you know. Come on, step up your game, take him _deeper_.”

Jaskier has always been competitive by nature and it doesn’t stop here, despite the vastly different scenario from anything he’s ever experienced before. He shifts closer, gets both hands wrapped around the base of Geralt’s cock to hold him steady, and bobs his head against him. He feels the strain against his throat and pushes past it, glides his lips over Geralt’s slick cock with increasing speed, tongue flicking against the head each time he pulls back. Geralt starts to thrust his hips into it and Jaskier meets him for every thrust eagerly, his own moans stilted and muffled as Geralt’s cock batters the back of his throat.

Slowly but surely, with a great deal of determination, Jaskier manages to stretch his limits further one inch at a time. He has almost all of Geralt’s cock engulfed in his mouth and when Yen slides a hand down to his throat, where it’s shuddering and protesting the strain, she coos softly at him that she can feel the way his neck distends and holds the shape of Geralt’s cock from the outside.

“Shit.” Geralt hisses through his teeth, biting down on his knuckles.

“What do you think, Geralt? Think we’ll keep him?” Yen jokes, pressing a sloppy kiss to Jaskier’s cheek, strained and quivering as it is. He blinks his eyes against an onslaught of tears and whimpers, then swallows hard around Geralt’s cock to try and alleviate some of the discomfort. It’s a mistake, he realizes as much almost immediately, when Geralt gives a punched-out broken sort of sound.

And then he’s jerking his hips forward hard, burying the remainder of his cock into Jaskier’s mouth before he’s even had the chance to draw another breath. He splutters, slapping his hands to Geralt’s thighs and trying to push him back, nails digging into his skin in protest. But it’s a useless effort, Geralt is out of it, grunting as his cock jumps hard against Jaskier’s tongue and then starts _spilling_.

Jaskier’s eyes go comically wide with panic and he lands another flimsy hit to Geralt’s thigh, but the massive hand gripping his hair doesn’t relent, just keeps holding him in place as cum shoots into his willing mouth. It’s obscene. Geralt rocks his hips against his face as he finds his release, heavy balls grinding against Jaskier’s chin as he empties them down his throat. Jaskier is consumed with the fear that he’s about to drown on the sheer amount of seed, tears streaking down his cheeks even as his hand drops between his own legs to palm at himself. Because though it's mildly terrifying, it's also the hottest thing Jaskier's experienced in his entire life, and the fear hardly does anything to quell the _need_ burning hot in his gut.

Just when he’s sure he can’t handle another second of it, his throat spasming in its effort to swallow down all the excess spill, he feels the telltale tingle of Yennefer’s magic caressing him. And without ever inhaling, he finds his lungs comfortably full again, and rather than take the time to question it he invests himself in swallowing Geralt’s spend while he can.

The wet noises of his mouth working Geralt’s cock fill the air and it’s enough to have him hastily unbuttoning his trousers, shoving his hand inside to jerk himself. By some miracle, by the time Geralt finally eases his hips back, Jaskier has managed to swallow most of the mess. Still, the moment the tip eases from his lips, Jaskier finds himself doubling over in the dirt to hack and gasp for air. 

“You okay?” Geralt asks, the hand in Jaskier’s hair much lighter now, as he kneels beside him. Jaskier turns to him, a snide comment on the tip of his tongue, but he thinks better of it when he sees the genuine regret on Geralt’s face. That simply won’t do. If Jaskier has to die for the dick to ensure that _that_ happens again then he absolutely will. 

“Will it take you long to go again?” He asks instead, before he’s fully ready to. The hoarseness of his voice surprises even him, and he’s left coughing again to try and fix it. And then Yen is settling on her knees at his other side, smoothing a gentle hand down his throat, eases the ache with her magic. But she’s grinning, something tiny and niggling, and Jaskier can’t ignore it. “What? What’s so funny? As if you've never choked on a cock before, Yennefer.”

“No, not that, I wouldn't mock you for that. It was an admirable cause, after all."

"Then _what_?"

"A witcher’s refractory period is practically nonexistent, a few minutes at most if you’ve really worn him out, but usually he can go back to back without needing a break between.” Yen tells him, while Geralt very pointedly averts his eyes, looking sheepish. “I’ve tried to test his limits, but I always get tired or bored around the tenth round. Though maybe now that there’s two of us we’ll be able to get an exact number.”

“Ten?!” Jaskier yelps, looking at Geralt’s cock and noticing with a sinking sense of dread that it hasn’t even started to soften since coming a minute ago. Jaskier wonders distantly why none of the whores ever thought to share _that_ particular tidbit of information with him. They’d said that Geralt’s stamina was unrivaled, but Jaskier thought that meant he could _last_ ages in bed, not that he could and would come twenty times over throughout the night.

“So, how would you like to have him first?” Yen asks, hand working down the buttons of Jaskier’s doublet, making a valiant effort to strip him one-handed. He helps her along, shrugging the article of clothing from his shoulders and tossing it aside. “Now that you know you have all night.”

It’s somehow both an impossible question to answer and a remarkably easy one.

Because Jaskier wants it all, wants to have Geralt so many times that he’s exhausted with it, wants to try a little bit of everything and then repeat the cycle. Nothing is the right answer, the thing he’d like to do more than anything else. But nothing is the wrong answer either, because he’s sure he’d enjoy anything that involved him getting his hands on the massive man in front of him.

But Yen is looking at him, eyebrows raised, and he knows that he needs to give her an answer, and somehow he feels like he knows exactly what one she’s hoping for. He winks at her.

“I want to fuck him.” 

“Bold choice.” Yen comments, but it’s undoubtedly pleased. She hums, leaning into his side and winding her fingers under the hem of his undershirt, tugging it free from his pants. Jaskier lets her push it up his chest, lets her tug it over his head and leave him bare from the waist up. She leans back to admire her work, eyes shining with lust. “But do you really think you can make him scream like I do?”

Jaskier’s gaze lingers on her for a moment longer before he’s looking back to Geralt, leaning in to press a clumsy kiss to his lips. He means to stop there, honest, but he finds himself peppering kisses across Geralt’s entire jaw, tracing the outline of his scruff.

“Is that okay?” Jaskier whispers against his skin. Geralt doesn’t answer, just makes a low considering noise and tilts his head to the side, offering Jaskier more room to work. There’s a pleasant heat to his skin, which isn’t unheard of with how hot he runs normally, but Jaskier could swear his usual pale skin tone is flushed red. Maybe it’s embarrassing for him, to be talked about so openly in front of the both of them, to be sexualized so plainly but not involved in it. 

Jaskier reassures him, running two hands up the inside of his thighs, a soothing gesture. “Only if you want to, Geralt. But if you’ll let me, I’ll make it worth your while. I promise it’ll be good for you.”

“Fine.” Geralt relents, near immediately.

“Hell yes.” Jaskier lights up, pulling back to smile at him directly. Geralt quirks an eyebrow at him, almost like he knows what’s coming next even before Jaskier works up the nerve to ask. “Will you get on your hands and knees for me? Or is that pushing my luck too far?”

“Hm.” Geralt exhales audibly, looking undoubtedly annoyed, and yet he doesn’t even hesitate for a second before he’s shifting to do exactly as Jaskier asked of him. It’s a truly unique sight, Geralt on his hands and knees in the grass, bare as the day he was born. It feels oddly fitting for their first official sexual encounter, for it to take place out in the wild, god forbid Geralt ever fucks in a bed like a normal person. Jaskier is sure they’ll walk away from it after with dirt smeared across their skin and greenery in their hair, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

This is what he signed up for the moment he approached the brooding witcher in the corner of the tavern. This was what he wanted, all those years ago. Rough and filthy in the dirt, like bloody animals. 

Only thing missing is fresh blood and battle wounds littered over Geralt’s body, and maybe one of those potions that make his eyes go black as coal, make him a little bit more feral around the edges. They’ll have to do that next time, then. Cross fantasies of Jaskier’s off the checklist one by one.

As it is, he’s about to check off another.

It’s not a fantasy he’d been actively aware of. Sure, he’s thought about it in passing before, but he never realized how he longed to act it out in real life until this very moment, with all of that magnificent sculpted backside on display to him. Geralt’s ass is unfairly big, much like the rest of him, but considering the man has no fat anywhere else on his body it’s really quite cruel that the gods deigned him with an ass rounder and fuller than Jaskier’s has ever been. 

Anyway, it only takes one glimpse at that ass, with Geralt bent over and arched up to him in offering, for Jaskier to realize exactly what he wants to do with it. Of course, he probably should ask first, but Geralt is more or less giving him a free pass, and Jaskier doesn’t think he’d fully understand through explanation alone, not when it’s the sort-of thing that needs an example.

After all, despite being the most open-minded and flexible person in the continent, it’d thrown Jaskier for a blank the first time a man had offered to do it to him. And Geralt, bless him, is more of a tried and true kind of guy. He’s not the type to initiate anything new and exciting anywhere in life, sex included.

So Jaskier doesn’t hesitate, he trusts his gut and grabs two hearty handfuls of that mesmerizing ass, spreads both cheeks apart, and goes for it. He dives forward, buries his face in the bulk of that ass, and swipes his tongue over Geralt’s pucker. 

“ _Jaskier_! What the fucking h-”

“Shh, you gotta relax, angel.” Jaskier shushes him, running a hand over his flank, giving his muscular ass a little love tap for good measure. The sound Geralt makes in response is plainly displeased, and whether it’s due to the pet name or the spank Jaskier may never know. Either way, he responds by shushing him again and pressing a kiss to where he’d just slapped. “Trust me, Geralt. Let me take care of you.”

He’s not entirely sure it’ll work. See, as much as he knows that Geralt enjoys being taken care of, he is also painstakingly aware of the way Geralt denies enjoying such a thing. He’s not sure that it’ll help that Yennefer is here watching, given that she’s hardly the caregiving type, and doesn’t understand why Jaskier bothers to pamper Geralt with expensive oils and long massages whenever he gets the chance.

So it’s a risk to make such a promise, but it pays off. Geralt still grumbles, cursing lowly under his breath, but he lowers his chest back to the ground. The closest thing to permission Jaskier could hope to get, if he’s being honest. And sure, Geralt hides his face in his arms like he might combust of embarrassment, and he’s tense head to toe, apparently expecting to hate every second of it.

But it says in plain terms how much he _does_ trust Jaskier, to allow him to do this anyway.

And though he can’t speak with certainty… Jaskier has been on the receiving end of this and he’s pretty confident Geralt isn’t going to hate it _at all_ , let alone as much as he’s expecting to.

Jaskier leans back in slower this time, gives Geralt plenty of time to feel him approaching. He doesn’t mess around with slaps or kisses this time, instead burying his face between his round cheeks with a heavy exhale. His breath raises gooseflesh in its wake and he can’t help but smirk, lapping lazily across it, slicking Geralt’s entire arse crack before coming anywhere close to his entrance again.

By the time he gets there, Geralt is trembling slightly with either annoyance or impatience, but he certainly doesn’t complain when Jaskier mouths at his rim. The sound he makes is akin to a cry, torn from him against his will and quickly clamped down around and stifled. 

But there’s no hiding it, especially as Jaskier doubles his efforts, properly licking around Geralt’s entrance and teasing it with his tongue. He hasn’t even attempted to push inside yet and Geralt is pushing back into it subconsciously.

“Fuck.” Geralt bites out and it sounds almost angry, like he’s mad about how much he _doesn’t_ hate it, like his body has betrayed him on a personal level. And, just to prove a point, Jaskier applies more pressure on his next swipe and presses his tongue inside of him. Geralt chokes, but he quickly composes himself, trying to hold perfectly still and appear unaffected as Jaskier works him open.

More than once, Jaskier opens his eyes and flicks his gaze to the side, finding Yennefer watching the act with dark intrigued eyes. He hopes that Geralt can’t feel his smirk where it’s pressed against his ass, but he truly can’t help it. He’s never seen Yennefer look so… awestruck. Nothing shocks her anymore.

Unlike the first time Jaskier had this done to him, where it was rushed and overwhelming in a bad way, Jaskier is experienced enough to take it slow. He works Geralt open with long determined rolls of his tongue, pressing up against his inner walls and feeling the way they flutter against it. And when Geralt eventually starts to rock back against his face, pushing his hips into it and urging Jaskier deeper, harder… then Jaskier progresses.

He curls his tongue to a point and thrusts it into Geralt with some force behind it, fucking him with his tongue as if it were a cock. Geralt goes rigid against him, tries to shift away from the odd sensation only to have Jaskier’s hands grabbing for his hips and pulling him back. At that point Geralt gives up, puts all of his energy into staying still and letting Jaskier do what he will with him.

Jaskier is relentless about it, pressing deeper inside on every pass, flicking his tongue inside of him and drawing out the most beautiful litany of curses and cries. Geralt sounds absolutely wrecked, making pitchy little whimpers that Jaskier would never dream of drawing from him before this moment.

When Geralt starts to squirm, to clench down on him in overstimulation, Jaskier takes the hint and gives him a break. Jaskier pulls back from his work to slick his fingers and catch his breath. He can’t help but notice the way Geralt has been clawing at the ground, dirt built beneath the beds of his nails, fistfuls of grass dug up around him roots and all. Jaskier smirks, presses a kiss to his tailbone, and then presses a finger inside of him alongside the return of his tongue.

Geralt cries out like he’s been mortally wounded, entire body shuddering, and Jaskier is too invested to look and see if he’s just come or not. He keeps going anyway, pressing his finger to the hilt inside of Geralt and crooking it, searching around for the spot inside of him that’ll surely drive him mad alongside his tongue. It’s a matter of trial and error, and Jaskier doesn’t properly find it until he pushes a second finger in alongside the first, his tongue licking wetly between the two of them. But the moment he does, he knows it, as Geralt throws his head back and screams his pleasure. “Jaskier! Fuck, ah, it’s too much! Fucking hell! I can’t, I-”

Jaskier pulls his face back to give a hearty laugh, keeping up the steady motion of his fingers the entire while, continuing to wring such pretty noises from Geralt’s throat. 

“Is this how he screams for you, hm? Barely took five minutes to get him there, Yen, are you sure your game is as good as you claim it is?” Jaskier asks her, grinning devilishly. Yennefer rolls her eyes at him, reaching over to place a hand on Geralt’s trembling back, giving him a placating pat where he’s heaving for breath, looking shook to his core by the new development. 

“Can’t say I’ve ever entertained the idea of putting my tongue anywhere near his asshole, so you’ve got me beat there. You’re very committed.” Yen praises reluctantly and Jaskier just beams with it, puffing his chest out proudly. “People pleaser that you are, you’d make a lovely whore.”

“Thanks. It was my second choice, if the bard thing didn’t work out.” Jaskier quips back at her, and the joke lies in how much it isn’t a joke at all. She snorts out a laugh. He turns back to Geralt, presses a third finger to his rim. “Besides, I don’t have any oil. I need to get him prepped ‘fore I can fuck him.”

“Don’t need it.” Geralt bites out, between moans. 

“Like hell you don’t.” Jaskier whips his head around to glare at him, pressing his fingers inside him at a harsher angle. The hitch in his breath is unmistakable. “I’m not going to hurt you. Witcher or not, you’re not invincible. I want this to be good for you, not bearable if you grit your teeth through it.”

“Don’t. Need. It.”

“Geralt, seriously, I’m not-”

“Jaskier.” Yennefer interrupts him gently, her hand settles beside his on the curve of Geralt’s ass. Jaskier turns to her in confusion, doesn’t miss the flutter of her eyelashes as she concentrates, and though he knows her well enough to know she’s using magic it still takes him a moment to realize what she’s using it for. It becomes blatantly obvious when he feels the surge of wetness around his fingers though, when the glide into Geralt’s body suddenly becomes so much easier. 

“You can’t be serious.” Jaskier looks at her. He looks at the back of Geralt’s head. He looks down at his hand, slowly draws it back until his fingers slip free from the hold of Geralt’s body. Sure enough, they’re completely slicked, glistening with clear viscous liquid. “Fuck. You’re _serious_.”

“He’s so wet, look at him. Soaking. All for you.” Yen whispers, low and conspiratorial, and Jaskier knows somewhere in his mind that she’s teasing him but right now he really can’t be bothered to care. He’s on an entirely different plane. The wet squelch of Geralt’s body hugging his fingers, trying to suck them in deeper, dripping slick like a pussy… fuck. Jaskier’s never experienced anything like it. 

Yennefer shifts closer to him, kisses his bare shoulder. “Look at how easily he takes your fingers, his body is hungry for it, it knows what it wants. He _loves_ getting fucked, Jaskier, begs for it behind closed doors every chance he gets. And nothing ever satisfies him, with that witcher stamina of his he can go again and again and again, it takes forever to tire him. We’ll have to take turns, tap out and rest between sessions. Spend an entire day pulling him apart at the seams, making him our _bitch_.”

“Next time we stay at an inn.” Jaskier breathes, low and awed. “Would you like that, Geralt? Want to be fucked from both ends at once? Let Yen take your mouth while I have your ass?”

Geralt gives a noncommittal noise, shifting awkwardly against his hand. Taking the hint, Jaskier pulls his hand free and instead gets to his feet, hastily tugging his trousers down his legs. Geralt doesn’t bother to so much as lift his head in Jaskier’s direction, but Yennefer’s eyes never leave him for a second, glued like a hawk as he finally strips himself bare. He looks to her, waiting on a snide comment, but she’s rather uncharacteristically silent. 

No matter, Jaskier can definitely think of ways to pass the time himself.

He falls to his knees again and crowds up behind Geralt, jerking his cock a few times to make sure it’s fully hard. For good measure, he even slaps the head of it against Geralt’s pucker, where it’s loose and open, begging to be stuffed full of cock. Geralt pushes back into it, impatient to be filled, but Jaskier ignores him in favour of fucking his cock through the shallow dip between his cheeks.

“He’s kinda big, isn’t he?” Yen stage-whispers it to Geralt, though her eyes stay glued to Jaskier the entire time. Geralt huffs, plainly annoyed by their antics. “I didn’t see that coming either. Usually the loud ones are trying to compensate. Maybe he’ll leave you satisfied after all.”

“Oh, bugger off, you’re just mad you passed on your chance to be the first one fucked by it.” 

“I’m starting to wonder if I passed on my chance too, you’re taking so fucking long.” Geralt comments drily, accompanied by a long-suffering sigh that says he’s just about had it with letting them call the shots when it’s resulting in him getting next to nothing out of the arrangement.

“Aw, come now, all you had to do was ask me nicely.” Jaskier says quickly, hopeful to appease him before he gets pissed off enough to simply take what he wants. Jaskier is sort-of enjoying the heady rush of having the witcher spread out beneath him, it’s making him feel powerful in a way he’s never aspired to be in a sexual scenario, but hell if it isn’t hot now.

He takes his cock in hand and holds it steady, pressing it to Geralt’s entrance again and applying more pressure behind it this time. Geralt’s body gives easily, almost eagerly, and the head of his cock is engulfed in warm, wet heat before he has time to prepare himself. Both for the physical sensation of it, and the _visual_ . Fuck. “Gods, Geralt, _look at you_. I could write so many songs about this.” 

“Try it and I’ll gut you.” 

And then he’s slowly easing his cock further inside, gritting his teeth to hold onto his self-restraint. Geralt is unbearably tight inside for a man so meticulously stretched. Maybe it has something to do with Yen’s magical influence or maybe it’s all Geralt, but the point is Jaskier is _struggling_. It’s nothing more than he can handle, but it’s enough that he finds himself going uncharacteristically silent as he concentrates.

“I’ve never seen Jaskier speechless before, Geralt, what have you done to the man?”

“Nothing yet.” Geralt snipes back, and Jaskier sees the warning for what it is before suddenly Geralt is pushing back against him, working to bottom him out far faster than Jaskier is prepared for. He chokes on his own saliva, desperately grabbing at Geralt’s hips to try and hold him still.

“S-Slow down, baby. You’re so tight, I don’t think you can take me yet. Pace yourself.” Jaskier tells him, his voice smooth like butter, trying to convince Geralt to listen. He should’ve recognized that as his first mistake, really. Geralt _never_ listens. 

In an instant, Geralt has used the full bulk of his weight to arch back against him, shoving until his ass cheeks hit Jaskier’s thighs with enough force to give a resounding slap. And Jaskier… manages to hold on by a thread, by biting into his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. “ _Damn it!_ That wasn’t meant to be a _challenge_ , you bastard!”

Fully bottomed-out inside Geralt, it’s all Jaskier can do to keep from coming on the spot. It doesn’t help that Geralt doesn’t relent even then, doesn’t give him so much as a second to catch his breath and come back to himself. Immediately, he leans forward and then rocks back against him, setting a brutal pace right from the start, working Jaskier’s cock like it comes to him as instinctually as fighting.

Jaskier is, once again, utterly speechless.

“I told you he liked it.” Yen comments casually, like he isn’t in the middle of having his mind absolutely blown. Of course he’d known, to an extent, that Geralt took cock on the regular. Yennefer had told him as much in plain terms almost a year ago now and so Jaskier had deposited that information in the back of his mind and only ever accessed it during late lonely nights. But there is a difference between knowing it to be so, and seeing it in action, _feeling_ it.

Geralt is a powerhouse of a man, strength radiates off of every inch of him. He fucks like he fights, every movement calculated, every shift and rock of his hips perfectly timed and almost graceful. He knows what he wants and he takes it, ruthlessly, and Jaskier is merely along for the ride. Any illusion he'd had of power had been exactly that, a lie.

“Forgive me if I didn’t understand until right this second.” Jaskier chokes out, looking over at her only to choke a second time when his gaze falls on where her hand is tucked between her legs. Though he has a terrible view of it, he can see that her fingers are disappearing inside of herself, fucking into her pussy idly while she watches the two of them fuck. Damn it all, Jaskier is truly in over his head here. 

He wonders if being with the two of them will ever feel less like being thrown into the middle of a lake without any knowledge of how to swim.

“Fuck, the way he presses back against it.” Jaskier manages through gritted teeth, finally getting his wits about him enough to start meeting Geralt’s steady grind with a few thrusts of his own. It’s immediately worth it when he hears the grunts it punches out of Geralt’s throat. And Geralt rolls his hips into his with that much more enthusiasm in response, smooth and easy. Effortless even as sweat builds along his skin from exertion. “He works his hips like a dancer, perhaps he's the aspiring whore among us. Did you teach him this?”

“I think it’s instinct... or maybe he picked up a thing or two when he let all the other boys at Kaer Morhen have their way with him.” Yennefer drops that information like it’s less than a bomb, a flighty little giggle following as Geralt bristles like a bear. He turns to her with a glare, teeth bared, and yet his hips still don’t slow where they work against Jaskier’s. “Oh, shush, don’t get prickly with me. Like Jaskier is going to judge you for your experimental stage, I’m sure he’s done worse.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Jaskier acquiesces.

“He’s close.” Yen tells him then, brushing Geralt’s hair back from his face and looking at Jaskier over his shoulder, her eyes sparkling with mirth and fondness alike. “Think you can make him come untouched?”

“Really, Yen, you have so little faith in me.” Jaskier sighs heavily, shaking his head at her. Then, to prove his point, he starts to fuck into Geralt harder. He’d been holding back up until this point, not wanting to push himself too far too fast and lose control, but he’s gotten used to the sensation of Geralt’s body hugging him like a vice just enough to relax a bit. Now, the sound of skin slapping skin fills the clearing, and Geralt meets him thrust for thrust.

If he were fucking anyone else, he’d worry he was being too rough about it. His nails are digging red marks into Geralt’s hips, his hips bruising where they repeatedly collide with his ass, and the way he’s bullying his cock into Geralt’s ass would be sure to leave any other partner staggering and sore the morning after. But he knows Geralt has a high pain tolerance, and maybe an affliction for pain itself if his current pleased groans are anything to go by, so Jaskier doesn’t relent.

He loses himself to it, finds his eyes falling closed and his jaw going slack.

“You like that? You like how I’m fucking you? Like being stretched around a thick cock? On your knees for another man?” Jaskier says, shocked by how gravelly his own voice has gone with arousal. He’s hopeful that Geralt won’t be the type of man to hate dirty talk because in moments like these, much like every other moment, Jaskier can’t keep his mouth from running. He has to vocalize it, has to put it into words how good Geralt looks and how good he’s making him feel. He wants to memorize every second of this.

It’s not meant to be derogatory, though he can understand why Geralt might take it such a way.

He’s used to fucking Yen and gods bless her, she’s competitive and snarky down to her core. Geralt likes that about her, likes that she keeps him on his toes and held accountable for all of his shit, but Jaskier can’t help but wonder if it gets hard when it’s always banter between them, genuine moments far and few between. Hell, she hadn’t even said the word _love_ until today, and they’ve had this thing between them going for _years_ now off and on. 

Her idea of flirting is playful insults thrown back and forth, so can anyone blame Geralt for having his guard up? For thinking that Jaskier is coming from a place of mocking, of teasing?

“Why bother asking? You know the answer.” Geralt grumbles out, like it’s the most regrettable thing he’s ever admitted to, like Jaskier is going to lord it over his head for years to come. But really, Jaskier isn’t that type of guy, and so he tries to express as much by changing his approach.

He leans over Geralt further, keeps pistoning his hips in and out of his trembling body, and presses a few clumsy kisses to the nape of his neck where a long-healed scar resides.

“You take my cock so well, like you were _made_ for it.” Jaskier tells him, sweetly as he can manage. There isn’t a hint of sarcasm present in his tone, not when he means every single word of it. He doesn’t think he’s ever fucked anyone as invested as Geralt, anyone who’s met him thrust for thrust and breath for breath, like he’s giving them something invaluable. 

“Fuck off.”

“Ooh, you like that, don’t you?” Jaskier sees right through him, hears the slight tremor in his voice, feels the way he clamps down tight around his cock. Geralt gives a weak gasp for air and then leans forward, burying his face into Yennefer’s lap rather gracelessly. But Jaskier doesn’t relent, and he knows for a fact that Geralt can still hear him. “Does my witcher like a little bit of praise? Like hearing what a good job you’re doing? Knowing that you’re pleasing me? Feel so fucking good on my cock, like _velvet_.”

“Jaskier.” His tone holds a warning, but Jaskier and Yennefer make eye contact over his back and both decide to completely ignore it. Yennefer strokes loving hands through Geralt’s hair while Jaskier plows him from behind at a bruising pace. Between gasps for breath, he keeps talking, blurting whatever comes to mind and hoping it lands.

“Gonna come for me, Geralt? You’ve been so good, so very good for me, I think you deserve to, don’t you? It’s okay, you can let go. I know you need to. I can’t wait to see you come undone, beautiful.”

“Fuck.” Geralt cries out, his entire body shuddering near violently. 

With his cock buried to the hilt inside of his body, there’s absolutely no mistaking whether or not Geralt’s come this time. The very moment it hits, Jaskier knows, can feel it in the way his ass bears down around him and hugs his cock like a glove. He can feel it in the way Geralt leans away from the pleasure rather than greedily back into it, clearly overstimulated. So Jaskier slows his hips accordingly, but doesn’t stop entirely, fucking him through it and making sure to draw it out as long as he comfortably can.

Geralt sounds ruined, where he chokes and gasps for air, moaning Jaskier’s name so no one dares to forget who was the one to coax this pleasure out of him. It’s such a burst of pride that Jaskier nearly follows him right over the edge, only managing to hold out because he’s certain he doesn’t want this to be over so soon.

His two partners may be able to go over and over again, but he’s still unfortunately limited to the normal human amount of orgasms, and so he’d best wait it out if he wants it to last.

“Interesting.” Yen observes impassively. “And here I thought he liked being degraded.”

“Oh, I’m sure he likes that too, martyr complex that he has. He likes to be told he’s a nasty naughty beast, in the same breath that you praise him for being _your_ nasty naughty beast.” Jaskier says, sprawling himself out across the broad length of Geralt’s back, panting raggedly against his pale skin. 

He can still feel Geralt’s body trembling with the aftershocks of orgasm, his rim fluttering around Jaskier’s cock, trying to pull him in deeper. To distract himself, Jaskier reaches underneath Geralt and teases his nipples, and that nearly ends in him getting bodily bucked off like a horse. A no to nipple-play, then. 

“Is this what sex with you two is _always_ gonna be like? Commentary through the whole act?”

“No, I don’t think so. Sometimes I imagine you’ll fuck me with that monstrous cock of yours and I’ll be too busy screaming your name to say much of anything else.” Jaskier admits, and Yen snorts out a laugh that would be cripplingly unflattering were it anyone else. “So, I’m sure you can understand why I’m trying to get it all out of my system now. It’s just being practical, you see.”

“ _Hm_.”

They take a minute to regain their composure, and by then Geralt is shifting awkwardly in front of him, so Jaskier pulls his cock free where it’s still hard and aching for release. Despite not having come, the insides of Geralt’s thighs are soaked with whatever manner of magical lubricant Yennefer had supplied, and a wet trail of the stuff leaks down his taint and over his balls the moment Jaskier’s cock is no longer keeping it plugged inside. He gulps, gaze glued to it, and watches as it drops down to the grass below.

Then, hopefully, he turns to Yennefer. 

“Well, I guess it’s our turn to bump uglies, yeah?”

His hopes are promptly crushed, when Yennefer simply scoffs at him.

“I mean what I said. You’re not fucking me tonight.” Yennefer tells him plainly and he holds his hands up defensively, shrugging his shoulders in defeat. He figured it was worth a shot, but he’s not about to beg for her to change her mind. She’d never let him live it down. Besides, Geralt’s breathing is mostly back to normal, maybe he’ll be down to go another round if Jaskier praises him a bit more and- “On your back. I want to ride your face while Geralt rides your cock.”

Change of plans.

“Fuck.” Jaskier wheezes, immediately scrambling to fall onto his back in the moss, uncaring of what manner of bugs reside underneath him. “I’m not following orders, for the record, I’m doing it own my own violation because that might be the hottest image to ever cross my mind. Gods.”

“Whatever you say, pretty boy.” Yennefer gets to her feet and walks over to him, looking like an ethereal forest spirit, bare and radiating where she approaches. She steps over him, standing with a foot on either side of his head, and it’s all he can do to keep from tugging her down on top of him to rush things along. 

She sets her own pace, eventually shifting to her knees, bracketing his head with her thighs as she settles astride his face. Immediately, his tongue darts out and laps between her folds, getting a taste for her. He groans, hips thrusting up off the ground and humping the air uselessly, but he gets none of the friction he’s after. She merely chuckles. “How do I taste?”

He pulls back to gasp for air, then grins devilishly up at her.

“Like _magic_.”

“You’re not funny.” She tells him flatly.

“It was kind-of funny.” Jaskier suggests, eyebrows wiggling. She shuts him up in what he’s sure will become her new favorite way, giving him no warning before dropping her weight down and sitting on his face again. He moans between her legs, enthusiastically going along with it and kissing her clit, flicking his tongue teasingly against it. She reaches a hand down and winds her fingers through his hair, and she’s decidedly much rougher about the way she pulls and yanks on his hair than she dared to be with Geralt’s.

He finds he doesn’t mind, not at all, even leans into it and has to fight to keep focused on anything else.

Jaskier starts to eat her out properly then, hands grabbing at her ass to hold her in place as he licks inside of her. She’s wet. Wetter than Geralt had been, somehow, though he doesn’t think she’s used magic to aid herself. She’s just incredibly turned on after sitting on the sidelines and watching him and Geralt go at it. He feels it in the way her cunt flutters around his tongue, the wet pulse of her slick across his chin that’s left to trail down either side of his jaw.

He’s so focused on servicing her that it startles him when he feels a weight settle atop his thighs, keeping him from kicking out or supporting himself. He immediately settles when Geralt runs one of his giant calloused hands up the inside of his thigh though, settling him like a spooked animal, and then grabbing for his cock. Jaskier moans against Yennefer at that.

Moments later and Geralt deems him slicked with whatever manner of lube he’s found, likely the wetness he’s scooped from between his legs given what a practical guy Geralt is. That’s a thought for another time though, given that Jaskier desperately wants to make this good for him and last longer than two seconds flat.

Geralt crowds over his lap then and it’s incredibly difficult to keep concentrated on Yennefer, or much of anything, as he feels the head of his cock disappear inside that damned perfect ass. Fuck.

“I know that face. Geralt’s sinking down into your lap, isn’t he? Putting those thick thighs of his to work and showing you how he _rides_. He’s rough about it, knows his way around a cock.” Yennefer coos at him, stroking her hands over either side of his face. Jaskier gives a helpless noise, muffled as it is buried deep against her rocking hips. Above him, Yen shifts and turns around in the spot, and though Jaskier can’t see he’s sure she’s smiling back at Geralt. “Hello, love. Enjoying yourself?”

“ _Yen_.” And oh, how wrecked Geralt sounds, as he lifts and drops against Jaskier’s cock. Despite being the one being fucked, he’s very clearly the one in control now, and it’s clear he’s more comfortable with that than the vulnerability that comes with letting someone else call the shots. He sets a brutal pace, rides Jaskier like a horse (sorry Roach, he feels bad despite not even saying it aloud).

“We should’ve invited him to join us in the bedroom a long time ago, this is fun.” Yen comments, and Jaskier can’t help but buck up into Geralt’s heat at that, reminded again of how much longer they could have been doing this for. He can only imagine all the ways they would have fucked by now if they’d started at it a year ago. He’s been severely missing out. Luckily he has a lifetime to make up for it.

“O-Oh, wow, you’re actually not bad at this.” Yennefer comments, as he eats her out with more enthusiasm, delving his tongue inside of her and tasting her properly. Here, she’s much warmer, the taste of her heady and overwhelming, and Jaskier can’t get enough as he laps at her. “Mm, that’s it, eat it.”

“Fuck, Yen.” Geralt grunts at her, low and pleasured. “He must be good, you’re _loud_.”

“Fuck, yes! Just like that, don’t stop! Ah!” Yennefer cries out a final time as her orgasm hits. Try as she may, she can’t hold herself still through it, and ends up grinding against the entire lower half of Jaskier’s face in an effort to take her pleasure for herself. Jaskier holds his breath through it, tries to let her ride it out as long as she needs to. And then, when she finally relents and tries to back off of him, he springs into action. “Alright, alright, give me a second to-”

His arms dart up, wrapping around her thighs and pinning her to the spot. 

She looks uncharacteristically scandalized, gaping down at his bold behavior. 

“What? Can’t handle it?” Jaskier challenges her, pressing the flat of his tongue to the her clit, dragging it across the bundle of nerves and feeling the way her sex trembles against him in overstimulation. While before she’d been shouting her approval the whole way through, now she expresses it in a simpler and quieter way, with breathy whimpers and choked cries. Jaskier just holds her thighs tighter in response and keeps her in place, dark eyes boring into hers. “Want me to stop? You’ll have to beg for it.”

“What kind of game are you playing, _bard_?” Yen sighs, but she relaxes into it, doesn’t even make a genuine effort to fight against him. He grins, goes back to pleasuring her even now that his jaw is starting to ache in protest. “You’re bound to lose, you know.”

Yennefer is rougher now that she’s come, if anything. Almost like she needs more to get her there a second time, or perhaps she’s being particularly difficult and trying to hang on longer just to make sure Jaskier has to work for it, hoping he’ll admit his weakness and back down before she’s finished.

He doesn’t, even plants his elbows and his feet on the ground and starts shifting his entire body into it, fucking her open around his tongue until she’s loose and ready enough to take a cock. Almost without his knowledge, he finds his hips driving up into Geralt, completely derailing the rhythm he’d worked so hard to set. Strangely though, he doesn’t hear a complaint.

He gets his answer why when less than a minute later, blunt nails are left to dig into his hips, his stomach, anywhere within reach as Geralt shudders around his cock with his high. He feels the wet splatter of release across his abdomen and that in itself is such a turn-on that Jaskier has to curl his hands into fists to stave off his own finish.

“Fuck.” Geralt spits out, and Jaskier can just barely see it when pale scarred hands come around to grab at Yennefer’s breasts, palming at them as she all but bounces on Jaskier’s face, fucking his tongue.

“What’s that? Three times already? Four? You’re greedy tonight.” Yennefer accuses lightly, looking back over her shoulder. He hears their kiss more than he sees it, but the simple knowledge of it warms Jaskier all the same. Love is a funny thing, the way it blooms and grows the more he knows it’s reciprocated, until he’s absolutely drowning in the thick of it.

It doesn’t help that when she addresses Geralt her tone is soft and affectionate, something that Jaskier would undoubtedly find cute if he wasn’t currently being suffocated beneath her weight, choking on the slick of her cum. They’re conflicting sensations, as she carelessly uses him to get off, and then tells Geralt that she loves him like it’s nothing, like it’s the easiest thing she’s ever done.

“Melitele have mercy.” Jaskier mouths against her pussy and it’s almost comical how her hips stutter against his face in response, like he’s hit a particularly good spot just by speaking the goddess's name. 

“He hasn’t come _yet_?” 

“No.” Geralt answers, and Jaskier hisses at the feeling of cold that engulfs his hard cock when Geralt pulls off of him. A moment later, he appears at Yennefer’s side, peering curiously down at Jaskier’s strangled expression as he struggles to keep from fucking the air. “Magic?”

“That’s the beauty of it, Geralt, I’m not even helping him out. Truth be told, I thought it would be kind of funny if he came the second he bottomed out inside you, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.” She sees the disbelief on Geralt’s face, as does Jaskier, so it’s not really a surprise that she narrows her eyes right back at him and defends herself. “I’m not lying, Geralt. No magic involved. Maybe I’ve fucked you loose and it disappointed.”

“Definitely didn’t disappoint.” Jaskier assures them both, using all of his strength to push Yen back from his face enough to contribute to the conversation. Geralt huffs at him and Jaskier clarifies, just to be sure that he understands. “Your ass is otherworldly, I very much enjoyed it. I just have good self-control.”

“When have you ever, in your entire life, practice good self-control? Name one instance.”

“Good sexual self-control then, whatever. Countess de Stael was really into edging. If I didn’t want to be flogged, then I didn’t come until I was told to.” Jaskier admits hesitantly, the tips of his ears tinting with pink as he recalls his previous affairs. He’s not normally one to kiss and tell, it feels strange to now.

“I’ve really gotta meet this Countess, I think we’d get along.” Yennefer laughs airily. “So, what is it that made you submit to her but has you hesitating with me? Just trying to appear tough in front of Geralt?”

“Between you and me?” Jaskier looks up at her from between her legs, turns his head to the side and kisses across her inner thigh, littering bite marks there. She shifts her hips against him, gives a stilted little moan, as his fingers dip inside her to continue to pleasure her even while his mouth can't. “I don’t think you like control as much as you let on.”

“Is that so?”

“You like the fight, but once you have it, you grow restless. I think Geralt appealed to you because of how tough he was, you thought he’d be the one to finally stand up to you, to give you a challenge. And in some ways, he did, but the bedroom wasn’t one of them. Clearly.” Jaskier explains, hitching his fingers toward himself and relishing the shocked gasp it draws from her. Her legs attempt to slam shut and come up short, instead hugging either side of her head as she starts rocking against his fingers in earnest.

“Quite the multitasker, aren’t you?” She manages, swallowing roughly.

“You weren’t the only one participating in basement orgies.” Jaskier admits, doesn’t miss the choked noise Geralt makes from behind her. Experimentally, he fucks up into the air, and seconds later he feels Geralt’s fist wrap around his cock. Geralt jerks him in slow, steady strokes, not enough to get off on but certainly a pleasant distraction from the heat building underneath his skin like lava.

“Who said I participated? I merely hosted. I’m a good girl, I don’t spread my legs for just anyone.”

“Well, where’s the fun in that?” Jaskier accuses wickedly, settling his thumb on her clit and rubbing at it in tight circles, measuring the pace and the angle by how tightly her thighs hug his face. Eventually he gets with a rhythm that seems to work for her, has her growing ever wetter around his fingers. 

She throws her head back when she comes, crying out his name with the force of her second climax. It sends a thrill through him, hearing his affect on her. She scrambles against him, unsure whether she wants more or a reprieve, but in the end she settles for slowly riding his fingers, lifting and dropping herself back down against them and milking her orgasm as far as she can take it. 

Finally, her hips slow, and then stop. 

He waits until her breathing has evened to strike. He turns then and finally buries his face in the apex between her legs again. He licks between his fingers in one long rough swipe of his tongue, gathers all the excess wetness that’d leaked out between them and swallows it down. He groans, pulling his fingers free from the tight hold of her pussy, holding them up to admire the slick shine of them. 

When he glances up at her he finds her gaze dark, fixed on his hand as well. He spreads his fingers, watches thin strands of her cum stretch between his digits. “Look at the mess you made, gorgeous.”

She shakes her head at the debauchery. Not amused.

“Have Geralt clean it up.” She says flippantly, hoisting herself off of him and then collapsing into the grass at his side. He sits there dumbly for a long moment afterward, now face-to-face with Geralt instead, his fingers still held out in the air. He almost expects Geralt to dip down unbidden and suck them each clean, like a well-trained pet. Of course, he’s not that submissive, and when Jaskier lifts his eyebrows in silent question and holds his hand out further… Geralt scoffs and averts his eyes.

Then, slowly, he shifts onto his hands and knees again, facing in the opposite direction.

Jaskier can take a hint, instead wiping his fingers off in the grass hastily, eager to be back inside of him again. Meanwhile, Yen is growing impatient next to them, her hand running over Geralt’s ass, fingers dipping between his cheeks and two disappearing into the tight clench of his hole. Geralt grunts, but otherwise doesn’t acknowledge it, aside from the telltale shiver of his thighs as they struggle to hold his weight up. 

And Jaskier… simply stares, mesmerized still by Geralt’s body and how hungry it is to be fucked. Yennefer catches his gaze, looks confused. “Well? Are you waiting on permission? Fuck him already, he’s ready for the next round. He loves it when you finish inside him. And I wanna watch.”

Jaskier doesn’t really need much more encouragement than that, if he’s being honest.

He crawls closer, glances down at himself and near laughs aloud at the state he’s in, dirt smeared across his skin and streaks of green dyed across it where the grass has rubbed against him harshly. He can only imagine the mess of his face, or what his hair looks like right about now. It’s almost comical, how their first time together lives up to all the expectations he’d had that very first time he’d laid eyes on Geralt.

Back then, the day he approached the brooding butcher of Blaviken in the corner of the tavern, that’s all he’d been expecting to come of it. A quick, rough fuck in the woods like a couple of horny animals and then they’d go their separate ways. The risk, the danger of it all, the fear that settled heavy in his gut right alongside the lust… that was all part of the appeal. 

Instead, he’d gotten so much more than he ever could have bargained for. An adventure, a purpose, love... a home.

And now, he’s getting his original wishes fulfilled as well, over a decade of pining later.

He turns to Geralt in the same instance that Yen slips her fingers free of him. Jaskier moves in, lazily trails his gaze over all the pale flesh on display to him and can’t help but to run his hands over it. He starts at Geralt’s shoulders, smooths his hands over the planes of his back, ends up cupping two handfuls of his ass and then giving each a little slap. It doesn’t garner such a negative reaction this time, just a resigned sigh, and then Geralt’s legs spreading impossibly wider in invitation.

But the thing is, Jaskier’s already had him once like this, and he finds himself missing the intimacy of being able to read Geralt’s expressions. So he goes out on a limb and decides to voice his concerns.

“On your back. I wanna see you.” A part of him is still expecting protest, or at the very least some begrudged complaining as he gives in and gives Jaskier what he’s after. But, as he quickly realizes, it isn’t such an unrealistic request. And though he doesn’t admit as much, the speed with which Geralt rolls over and lays his back down into the soft moss says it all. He’d wanted the exact same thing. 

The only problem is now Jaskier needs to take a moment to compose himself, to simply stare as Geralt basks in front of him, nude and powerful. “You are _breathtaking_ , Geralt, have I ever told you that?”

“Hurry up and fuck me, or else I’ll do it myself.” 

“As much as I’d love to see that, I do think I’d like to come at least once tonight, so you’re in luck.”

After that, Jaskier holds true to his words and is uncharacteristically quick about moving things along between them. He crowds closer to Geralt, climbs over his body and leans down to kiss him, wonders if Geralt recognizes the taste of Yen on his tongue and if that’s why he kisses back so hard, like he wants to reclaim every inch of Jaskier’s mouth with his own taste.

Geralt spreads his legs as if on instinct the very moment Jaskier reaches for his cock, and their eyes meet in a wordless exchange, Geralt demanding that he doesn’t call him out on it. So he doesn’t, just stifles a chuckle under his breath, and shifts closer to accommodate the space Geralt has made for him. He presses the head of his cock to Geralt’s rim, grins at how absolutely soaked his hole is, sloppy from their past couplings. He can’t wait to wreck it again, to stuff him full of his cum.

He pushes into Geralt and has to bite down hard on his tongue to keep from spilling immediately. It’s even worse than the first time, with how strung-out and edged he’s been all night, now desperate for release. He needs it, like a lifeline, isn’t sure how much longer he can go without. He’s slipping.

Gone for it as he is, Jaskier doesn’t have it in him to set a leisurely pace and be understanding of the sensitive state Geralt is in. Instead, he chases his peak blindly, clumsy and uncoordinated with it. He waits on Geralt to call him out on it, or perhaps Yen, but they both seem to be of the understanding that he’s beyond control at this point. He’s strung-out and needy, ready to spill over at a moment’s notice.

“He’s a big man, isn’t he?” Yen says suddenly, from where she’s sprawled out next to them, propped up and posed like the world’s most renowned muse. Never in his life has Jaskier wished another art called to him, but moments like this he wishes he could capture her on canvas, or perhaps in marble. Future generations deserve to know her, to see what beauty truly looked like.

“Mm. It’s hot.” Jaskier says, without much thought to it. Geralt doesn’t even have his wits about him to grumble or complain, merely along for the ride as Jaskier fucks him. He’s not particularly rough about it now, but he is fast, pistoning his hips into Geralt in shallow thrusts. 

It must be doing something for him, something more than before, or maybe he’s just sensitive from having come so many times… but Geralt is unmistakably louder this time around. He cries out each time the head of Jaskier’s cock hits just right, he stutters a near-constant prayer of Jaskier’s name, and he’s so loud about it that he likely can’t even hear the quiet conversation Jaskier and Yennefer are having. 

And they are still having a conversation, though Jaskier had thought it was over. Yen is looking expectantly at him, like he’s failed to realize something utterly straightforward in her words. “Were you going somewhere with that comment?”

“I bet he could take both of our cocks at once.” Yennefer says, dreamily. “ _Someday_.”

Fuck.

At that, Jaskier’s hips drive into Geralt that much harder, snapping forward with a cruel accuracy. Even Geralt can’t hide his reaction to her words, the way his legs come up to wrap clumsily around Jaskier’s hips, drawing him back in with their full strength. It isn’t long then until Geralt comes yet again, barely more than a few drops of seed spilling from his spent cock where it’s trapped between their stomachs.

“C-Close.” Jaskier bites out, hips stuttering. All of his control is crumbling and slipping through his fingers like sand now and he doesn’t have the will to fight it, not when he’s still haunted by the image of Geralt stretched wide around two cocks. Fuck. He’s not going to last at all. “Inside? You want it inside?”

“ _Hm._ ”

“ _Say it_ , Geralt. You gotta tell me. Wanna hear you ask me for it.” 

“Come inside me… please.” Geralt says then, like he’s trying out the words for the first time and uncertain if he likes the taste. Which is valid, but Jaskier doesn’t have that problem, as he’s wholly and obsessively _certain_ he likes the sound of them. And while he’d never ever ask Geralt to leave his comfort zone, there’s also something uniquely satisfying about seeing him do it voluntarily, just to please Jaskier and humor his kinks.

“Shit.” Jaskier gasps, and then he’s coming before he could ever hope to stop himself. He pushes his hips flush with Geralt’s and groans deep, his cock jumping as it finally begins to spill. He rocks forward with each wave of pleasure, filling Geralt with pulse after pulse of hot sticky cum. If he’s bothered by it, he certainly doesn’t show it, even tilts his hips forward to keep it all inside like he’s worried Jaskier might pull out at the first possible opportunity.

Jaskier doesn’t pull out, he keeps his cock buried to the hilt even after he’s finished, and then promptly collapses on Geralt’s inviting chest like he’s wanted to do so many times before. “That was… amazing.”

“Certainly better than expected.” Yennefer comments, from where she’s already walked away. Jaskier lifts his head from his comfortable pillow on Geralt’s chest, squints his eyes against the darkness surrounding them now that the sun has fully set. He spots Yennefer after a moment, but only thanks to the moon’s reflection on the water as she wades into it. It hardly seems like the safest thing, washing off in the lake that the water spirit is still dwelling in, but he shrugs his shoulders and leaves it be.

Yennefer has proven herself more than capable of coming to her own defense, she needs no keeper.

So instead Jaskier turns his attention to Geralt, trails a finger through the sticky mess of cum between their abdomens, traces patterns through it. Slowly, his blue eyes seek out Geralt’s, and he offers a small inkling of a smile. Geralt huffs, but he relents, lips just barely curling. Jaskier leans forward before he can stop himself and kisses it off of him, swallows it down hungrily, and still can’t get enough of it.

It’s going to take a while to get used to that, the fact that he’s able to do that.

When he pulls away, Geralt isn’t upset like he’d always imagined, he’s even happier than before. Now, his smile isn’t a fleeting little thing, it’s wide and unabashed, toothy in his amusement. Jaskier immediately feels compelled to kiss him again, but he stops himself. 

“You okay?” He asks instead, reaching up to tuck Geralt’s hair behind his ear. Nevermind that he’s probably just smeared cum through it, they’re both well aware that Geralt has had far worse things smeared through his long white hair, so a bit of his own cum is no biggie. 

“I’m fine.” Geralt answers, eyes falling closed, smile disappearing, like he’s planning on going to sleep just like that. Jaskier is a little bit affronted to say the least, considering this conversation is nowhere near closed, especially not after an answer as lackluster as that. Jaskier narrows his eyes at him.

“ _Just_ fine?” He huffs, petulant about it. “Damn, if you’re still _just fine_ then I haven’t done my job. Maybe I’ll have to make you come again, make sure you’re thoroughly satisfied with my services, so you’ll be sure to come back next time. How does that sound? Let me guess, _just fine_?”

“Don’t start something you can’t finish.” Geralt tells him simply, still not opening his eyes.

“Oh, Geralt, I can finish you _just fine_. I thought we established that just now.” Jaskier counters, reaching his hand down between them. Geralt’s cock is still hard, because apparently his erections don’t get the memo that sex is over ever, and instead need to be willed away with time rather than completion. He wraps a hand around Geralt and gives him a smooth stroke, smearing his own cum across his length, and the noise he earns for it is positively sinful.

Geralt groans beneath him, tipping his head back into the grass.

But, the unthinkable happens, and the smirk is wiped from Jaskier’s face as Geralt bats his hand away.

“Not tonight.” Geralt tells him, voice firm, final. Jaskier shrinks the slightest bit, his swollen ego knocked down a peg. He’s never taken rejection lightly, but coming from Geralt it’s always been especially hard, and though things are looking good now… there’s still a part of him that is terrified one wrong move will send the tower tumbling down. He doesn’t want to fuck this all up by being too much, too needy, coming on too strong. That’s his nightmare.

But Geralt must know that, to an extent. Because while he looks like he’d be perfectly content to drop it there and fall asleep, put this all behind them, instead he props himself up on an elbow to look at Jaskier properly. He reaches up with his free hand, traces Jaskier’s cheek with his fingertips. Then, he throws his arm around Jaskier and they both fall back into the dirt, naked but not cold in the slightest with their shared body heat. 

Geralt hums, pleased, as Jaskier relaxes against his chest again. “This. This is nice.”

“But there is a next time on the horizon, _correct_?” Jaskier asks, because he can’t help himself. 

“You ask too many questions.” It almost sounds like a dismissal. Almost. But it doesn’t really shock him at all when Geralt continues a moment later, low and gruff, clearly tired and struggling to stay awake. “For the record, _next time_ I’m fucking you. This isn’t going to be a regular occurrence. It’s inconvenient for me to take cock, leaves me with a clumsy gait afterward... not to mention how uncomfortable it is to ride Roach.”

“Sorry. I might have a salve that’ll help.” Jaskier offers, trying to appear guilty even though relief is hitting him like a crashing wave knowing that Geralt intends for this to happen again. They’re doing this. They really are. It’s still so hard to wrap his head around, that not only does he have Geralt, he has Yen too.

“I wasn’t asking for your pity, I was just warning you.” Geralt clarifies. “Next time, I’m taking you.”

“And I can’t wait. Been thinking about getting your cock inside of me for years. Long before I knew fucking you was on the table.” Jaskier agrees quickly, patting Geralt’s cock a final time before retrieving his hand and settling it between their chests. “But, I want to take care of you. Will you let me?”

“Yen could fix it with magic just as easily.”

“But Yen isn’t the one offering.”

“Yen never offers.” Yennefer calls from where she’s stretched out in the water, floating gracefully on her back, looking like a siren in the moonlight. “Because she thinks it’s hot when he lumbers around with his bow-legged wobble, remembering where she was the night before. And secretly, Geralt does too.”

Jaskier can’t help but giggle at that and Geralt shoots him a scathing look, but he can see through it to the flushed-pink embarrassment beneath, and that’s how he knows that she speaks the truth. He shushes the bigger man, presses a fingertip to his lips before he even says anything. Geralt quirks a single bushy eyebrow at him.

“While that might be true, and undoubtedly hot, I still think I’d like it better if my pleasure didn’t come at the price of discomfort for you later. At least for our first time together. Please?”

“Hm.” Geralt hums, low and thoughtful, and still visibly blushing. “Fine.”

That’s all the approval Jaskier needs to untangle himself from Geralt and run across the clearing, barefoot and bare-assed, to dig through the bag Geralt always keep on hand when going into a battle. It is almost entirely witcher potions, things that Geralt makes or buys, but aside from all of that, there are gifts from Jaskier to Geralt. Simple herbal healing salves that don’t leave his body smelling inhuman and toxic for days with whatever chemicals go into those potions, along with soaps and lotions that have no healing value and simply smell nice. 

When Jaskier first realized that Geralt treasured these gifts to keep them in his always-on-hand pack, it was a unique feeling of pride that he thought he’d never feel anything quite like again. Yet here he is now, padding back over to Geralt with a salve in his hands, watching as Geralt wordlessly rolls onto his stomach in the grass and raises his ass for him. So blindly trusting of him, so willing to express weakness in front of him, so whipped for Jaskier’s every whim. 

Jaskier has never been prouder, he’s sure of it. He’s not sure what he did exactly to deserve it, but by the gods is he going to relish it now, going to thank the universe every day for giving him this.

He kneels next to Geralt, presses a kiss to a scar stretching across his right shoulder blade, and then unscrews the cap on the salve. He holds it out to Geralt, who grunts indifferently at the smell of it, then drops his face back into his arms.

“Does it meet your standards?” Jaskier asks, not expecting an answer. Given that Geralt isn’t loudly complaining, he’s going to take it as an approval. He shifts down his body, settles between his legs and gingerly spreads his cheeks apart. Geralt hisses at the first press of his fingers to his puffy hole, reddened from being fucked and still-slick with Jaskier’s release. Jaskier shushes him, warms the salve between his fingers a little more just to be sure it’s comfortable, and then gently starts to work it into Geralt’s sore muscles. 

He finds it’s not all that different from massaging Geralt in any other context, as he feels him slowly relax beneath his touch, beginning to rumble something pleased and breathy in his chest. It’s almost akin to a purr, though he doesn’t dare point that out. 

He works his fingers into Geralt’s hole, spreads the salve inside of him as well, confident that all the ingredients are natural and won’t cause him any bodily harm. Then, once he’s finished there, he grabs for a more standard oil and begins to massage his cheeks as well. More for his own amusement than anything else, idly playing with the round globes of Geralt’s ass. “You have a lovely ass, Geralt.”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not!” Jaskier gasps. “It’s not necessarily new information to me, of course. I’ve known since that first fateful day I bathed you and rubbed chamomile into it. Your ass could give your cock a run for its money. I don’t know which I prefer. I suppose I’ll have to experiment more with both, really get a feel for each, and then I’ll make my decision an educated one.”

“You’re obnoxious.”

“You love it.” Jaskier counters and it feels strange, but oh so right, to be able to make that argument in response to Geralt’s lighthearted insults. It feels even more right when Geralt makes no effort at all to deny him, just relaxes under his hands again. Curious, Jaskier repeats himself, testing the waters just a little bit further. “You love _me_.”

“Hm.” Geralt looks back at him over that same scarred shoulder Jaskier had kissed moments ago, and his eyes are bright yellow in the moonlight like molten amber, contrasted kindly by where his pupils are blown with black like a pleased cat's. “Maybe I do.”

Maybe Geralt was onto something when he told Jaskier to stop starting things he couldn’t finish. Damn.

“Are you two almost done whispering sweet nothings to each other? Some of us are trying to sleep at some point tonight.” Yennefer says and she’s much closer now, but when Jaskier turns in search of her she isn’t headed their direction. She’s setting up her bed roll a few feet away from them. She catches him staring and throws both his and Geralt’s bedrolls to him, but doesn’t move to get any closer to them.

“Come here.” Jaskier tells her, wiping his hands off and tossing the bottles aside in the grass.

“No, he’ll roast me alive.” Yen sighs, casting a glare in Geralt’s direction. He is, in her defense, particularly toasty tonight after working up such a sweat. He’s also already asleep, as far as Jaskier can tell, so he’s forced to set up their bedrolls on his own and then use all of his strength to roll Geralt onto it like a dead body, a dead body that weighs near triple Jaskier’s weight. Fuck.

“Then don’t sleep next to him, sleep on the other side of me.” Jaskier tells her, as he settles down into his own bedroll next to Geralt’s, finds that she hasn’t laid down yet and is still staring contemplatively over at the two of them. He offers her his most hopeful grin, and she sighs long and hard like he’s beaten her into submission.

“Fine.” She practically throws her bedroll onto the ground next to his, falling into it and immediately turning her back to them. No matter though, as Jaskier is already facing her direction with Geralt wrapped soundly around him from behind, so it’s not such a stretch to reach an arm out and sling it over her hips. And then _look at them_ , three people spooning butt-naked in the middle of a forest, what a picture they must make. At the very least, they’ll scare away any robbers that happen upon them.

“Who knew, all this time you two just needed a barrier between you.” Jaskier comments, snuggling in soundly between them both, feeling full to the brim with warmth and adoration. He can’t remember ever being happier than he is in this moment, surrounded by the two people he loves, sandwiched between them and for once allowed to be there.

For a long moment, no one responds to him, and he thinks them both asleep.

But then...

“Jaskier.” Yen says, but there’s a hesitation there like she isn’t yet sure if she wants to continue, wants to say what’s on her mind. Jaskier lifts his head, looks at her blearily through half-lidded eyes. Something she sees there seems to make up her mind. “You’ve _been_ the barrier this entire time. We would have killed each other years ago if you hadn’t been there to play the role of mediator. The only reason we work as well as we do is because you’ve been between us every step of the way, acting as a buffer.”

“Oh.”

“She’s right, you know.” Geralt agrees, with a remarkable _lack_ of hesitation. “We owe a lot to you.”

“You don’t owe me a damn thing.” Jaskier insists immediately, looking back and forth between the two of them, before eventually caving and leaning in to press a kiss to both of their lips. Yen smiles into it, lazy and sated, her hand finding his atop the bedroll and grabbing for it. Geralt hums a pleased noise into the kiss, swipes his tongue across Jaskier’s bottom lip like he wants something more, then backs off the moment Jaskier tries to offer it. 

He sighs then, happily, before relaxing between the two of them again. “Consider this repaying me then, because I can’t think of a single thing I want more than to fall asleep between you two.”

“The novelty might wear off when mid-summer rolls around and Geralt melts your skin off at night.”

“And you’ll definitely think twice when you realize how Yen thrashes around all night long. She’s kicked me clean out of the bed countless times. I think she bruises me in her sleep more than the monsters are capable of when they’re actively trying to kill me.”

“I can think of worse fates.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap!!! It always feels super bittersweet finishing chaptered fics, but this in particular is making me emotional because it was my first big project in the witcher fandom and I loved the response I got to it. You guys have been an absolutely wonderful audience to write for. So many of your comments are paragraphs of kind and encouraging words and I EAT that shit up. I love it. 
> 
> So I can say with confidence that I'll definitely be returning to write more for the fandom. I'm still very much obsessed with the characters, I'm loving the community surrounding it, and tbh I just have so many more ideas for stories??? Some will probably be just Jaskier/Geralt because that's easier to cover when you're working with a shorter type of pwp fic, BUT I will absolutely be writing more with Yen as well because they're a wonderful OT3 and I loved the fun that was navigating their dynamic.
> 
> i am but a simply poly individual, all love triangles can and SHOULD end in everyone getting together and sharing their love with each other
> 
> OKAY that's all. Thank-you so much for reading and I hope you'll stick with me for any future projects!
> 
> social medias:  
> @melancholymango is my main twitter/tumblr  
> @redgaysonly is my fandom/nsfw twitter


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